Accidents and Experiments
by intjsherlocked
Summary: A collection of Sherlock one-shots in which John or Sherlock gets hurt in each one through a variety of illnesses, experiments (gone wrong), or injuries! No slash, only a very strong platonic friendship.
1. Bullet - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock is shot when he and John are separated on a case.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **Thanks to paula. who gave me this plot idea!**

 **Also, I understand that museums have more security than I give them credit for in this chapter, but in order to write this short story I made the security a lot more slack, so yeah :)**

* * *

John had no idea why Sherlock always seemed to have a "pressing" murder case going on, let alone how he managed to solve nearly all of them, nor did he understand how the detective seemed to hardly ever get hurt while dealing with criminals. However, there were times (though Sherlock didn't like to admit it) when the case had nothing to do with murder and Sherlock didn't solve it due to getting hurt. Though these were rare, they did occur every so often, and this particular case entailed all of those three circumstances. At least it gave John something new to write in his blog aside from "Sherlock made a brilliant deduction" and "It wasn't long before the criminal was caught by my friend".

John and Sherlock were in a museum, crouching behind a statue near a famous painting.

"Sherlock, no one is coming," John said, wanting nothing more than to return to Baker Street. They had been camping behind the statue for several hours now.

"They'll come. They _must_ ," Sherlock insisted. "There's barely any evidence pointing to the criminal, but this is the logically the next painting he'll vandalise if he continues his pattern!"

"But the museum is empty!" John protested. "There's no one but us here!"

A recent series of vandalism had already ruined some of London's greatest art. Someone had been putting a single bullet right through the center of valued paintings. It was simple, but effective in angering people of the city and the world. It had already made national television after the first act of vandalism. John wasn't typically and art fan, but even he was hoping Sherlock could catch the culprit soon, because it was a bit devastating to see piece after piece of great art punctured with a bullet.

"Besides," John continued, "they could be in the gallery in the east or west wing - not necessarily this one!"

"They'd want to put a bullet through this painting, though - it's the most famous," Sherlock said, frowning.

"Yes, but they _just might_ have realized that the world is now aware of his crimes," John said sarcastically. "Maybe they knew that this area would be heavily guarded, so they're going to a gallery to vandalize a less famous painting."  
"You're right!" Sherlock said, jumping to his feet.

Dang right John was right. Sometimes the detective was too clever for his own good and other times John wasn't surprised at all when he had a better idea than his friend. It really depended on the situation, he supposed.

"Okay, then. Do you want to take the west galley, and I'll take the east?" John asked. "Call me on my mobile if anything goes wrong."

"I prefer to text."

"Right, well, we're dealing with a criminal who has a gun," John reminded Sherlock. "Just - be careful, alright? The west wing is upstairs, not to mention on the other side of the museum - it'll take fifteen minutes to walk from the gallery I'll be at to yours. Be careful!" he reiterated, unsure if Sherlock understood the danger in the situation.

"Am I ever not?" Sherlock said over his shoulder, already dashing away.

The museum instantly felt more eerie the second John was on his own, walking down the dark, empty hallway. He passed the Egyptian exhibit quickly, with no inclination to linger around the sarcophaguses and rotten skeletons, then continued to the Renaissance Art Gallery.

He settled on sitting behind a large bench, where he was shrouded in the shadows and had a clear sight of the gallery. If anyone came through this way, he'd hear them anyway before seeing them because footsteps echoed quite loudly in the museum.

It was because of the silence of the museum that after only twenty minutes, the shrill ring of John's phone made him jump. It wasn't a text. It was a call. John pulled out his phone. It was Sherlock.

"I prefer to text," Sherlock had said earlier.

His heart leaping into his throat, John quickly accepted his call.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" John demanded into the phone. There was silence on the other end.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John asked, panicking slightly while climbing out of his spot behind the bench.

"John?" came the baritone voice, but it didn't have the proud tone it usually did. The tone on the other end of the line was confused and soft. "I've been shot."

"I'm on my way," John told him, now in a full sprint to the far away gallery that Sherlock was in. "Stay on the phone, alright? Can you still hear me?"

"I can hear you," was the hesitant response.

"Alright, first, where are you exactly?" John asked, because he knew his friend could be anywhere, depending on where he had been camped out to wait for the criminal. "Can you tell me where you are?"  
"I'm in the west wing," Sherlock responded, his voice slightly slurred.

"Yeah, okay. That's good. Keep going," John encouraged. "What can you see?"

"Paintings."

John cursed. The lack of comprehension meant Sherlock was probably bleeding heavily. He could go into shock any minute.

"Alright, hang on a minute, Sherlock. I'm calling an ambulance," John said, and hung up, quickly dialing 999 while still running. He called Sherlock again, and after about ten rings, the detective finally picked up.

"John, it hurts," Sherlock said in a small voice. "Are… you c-coming?"

"I'm on my way, mate," John assured him. "I'm almost there. Right, you said you're in the west wing and you can see paintings. What do the paintings look like?" He was running up the stairs now. _Almost there._

"One's large and has… knights on it…" Sherlock was mumbling now. "Medieval! I'm… I'm in the m-med-medieval section… J-John." He was stumbling over his words.

"Perfect, Sherlock! Alright, I'm almost there!" John told him, arriving in the gallery and searching for a painting of knights. "Keeping talking to me, Sherlock, I need to find you!" But no one answered on the other end. John abandoned his phone and shouted his friend's name. No one answered.

* * *

Sherlock felt quite stupid. He despised not coming up with the most clever plan, and was reprimanding himself for not considering the idea that the criminal might not have come for the most famous painting in the museum. He shuddered to himself, thinking how very Anderson-esque that was.

It didn't take long for him to choose a spot when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. They clearly weren't John's footsteps. He caught a glimpse of a figure walking quickly down the wing.

 _Female. Typically wears high heels, based on the placement of the ball before the heel. Between age thirty and forty. Divorced. No children._

Deductions were firing off in his head as he stood from where he had been crouched. His plan was to talk to her, delay her until John arrived (he would send a text from behind his back), then they could arrest her. He still couldn't see her face (she was in the shadows) when he called out in his most demanding voice that he usually only reserved for Mycroft, "Don't move and stay where you are. You're not going to shoot anymore paintings. The police are already on their way." This, of course, was a lie, but not many criminals seemed to realize that whenever he said it.

However, to his surprise, this criminal reacted differently than others to his voice. Most just froze when they realized they were caught. This one, however, caught off guard, turned her gun on him without further ado, and he barely heard the bullet due to an efficient muffler. The only indication that he had been shot was from the stain of red blooming over his button up.

Oops.

The woman turned and fled, apparently unaccustomed to shooting people. Sherlock didn't have time to be in shock that she shot him without even questioning his motives, because now he only had to worry about hypovolemic shock.

John's medical checklist for emergencies flashed through his mind, and he found himself pressing his hands against his chest; whether because he knew it would suppress the blood or because it really, really hurt, he wasn't sure.

With shaking fingers he picked up his phone and dialed John's number. He was barely even paying attention to the conversation and what John was saying because the bullet wound was agonizing and he was getting more and more cold. That was the shock, definitely. What had he done last time this had happened? He couldn't remember. Mary had shot him last time, but for some reason he couldn't remember how he had stopped the shock.

 _Redbeard._

That was how. But Redbeard was his friend, not his dog… His friend. He didn't have friends. Why was Victor Trevor his friend? Who would be friends with him - the person who everyone said couldn't understand emotion?

"You know, friends can be antidotes to shock, too, not just dogs. At least in your mind palace. I'm here for you, Sherlock," John said, standing in front of Sherlock. "You're not alone. I'm here."  
How had John made it over so fast? Unless… he was in his mind palace. John wasn't actually here, yet. This was John in his mind palace. Of course.

"Sherlock, you've got to concentrate. If you don't calm down, the shock will kill you before I get here," John said gently. "Come on, mate. Be a soldier."

Sherlock could only make eye contact with him before the pain became much sharper.

"That's it. Keep focusing on whatever will make the shock stop," John said, now crouched next to Sherlock, who was writhing on the floor - it hurt so much - there was no end to it -

"I'm trying!" Sherlock screamed, and his scream shattered the room he was in so that John disappeared and now he was in a black void by himself. Alone. That's how he liked it, right? Alone? But the pain was fading away now, being replaced by the mind-numbing cold again.

"You're going into shock again," came John's voice. "If you stopped trying to detach yourself from friends, I could help you."

Sherlock twisted his head around but John wasn't in sight. Only the black void was around him now.

"Alone is calming. Not friends," Sherlock yelled to John's empty voice. "I don't have friends!"  
"Then why are you going back into shock now that you're alone in this black void?" John asked, smirking, and now Sherlock could see him standing next to him. The room came crashing back into view as he left the dark abyss, and the pain was beginning to return.

"Sherlock, keep focusing on me. It's what's keeping you from going into shock," John said, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. As they made contact, that was when every sharp detail of the situation came back into full fledge, flooding his mind with needles of fiery pain, and then he was thrust out of his mind palace and back into the museum.

The real John was running up to him.

"Sherlock, you're alright," he said, immediately beginning his doctor routine. "Your pulse is weak, but I don't think you're in shock yet… Stay awake, mate, it's alright."

 _But I was in shock. You just helped me out of it,_ Sherlock tried to tell John, but his voice wasn't coming. He could feel himself drifting away now that John was there to take care of them.

 _John won't let me die._

* * *

"Is he going to be alright?" John asked the nurse who was tending to Sherlock once they were settled in the hospital and Sherlock's vitals were stable. "No permanent damage, right?"  
"None that we can foresee. He'll have to take it easy for a few months, though. His lung was damaged," the nurse said. "We can't risk him injuring it further, or then he might have lasting damage."

Two hours later Sherlock had woken.

"John?" Sherlock asked, opening his eyes quickly. Did that man have to be so bloody _alert_ all the time?

"I'm here," John said, scooting his chair over. "You're going to be alright. You got shot right in the chest. Almost the same place as when Mary had…" He didn't finish his sentence.

There was a moment of silence in the room.

"John, I would like to thank you. You got me out of shock," Sherlock said politely (John had taught him to thank people, and he supposed this was an appropriate time to thank his flatmate).

John was confused. "Sherlock, you weren't in shock. I have no idea how," he added.

"No, I was in shock. You saved me. In my mind palace," Sherlock insisted.

"So you managed to get yourself out of shock? How'd you do it?" John asked, impressed.

"No, you helped me."

"But I wasn't there when you were in shock!" John objected.

"But my memory of you and the actions you've done for me in the past were what enabled me to reverse the effects of shock; thus, you saved my life before you even arrived there!" Sherlock explained in a similar fashion as to how he would explain how a murder victim had died.

"Oh. Well… uh… you're welcome?"

"Thank you, John," Sherlock confirmed, closing his eyes again.

 **Thank you for reading! Please leave me a review with a suggestion for an injury / illness / or experiment gone wrong that could occur to either Sherlock or John! I would be so grateful!**


	2. Hallucination - John

**Author's Note: For this one I thought I would try writing hallucinations… enjoy! Don't forget to review and let me know how I should improve, I would appreciate it so much!**

"Remind me why we're doing this," John said as the plane shuddered again. "You realize that while you might be useful in London, you're not an international consulting detective."

"Yet, here we are, on our way to Maine," Sherlock said, a bored expression on his face. They were wedged onto a small plane, John in the aisle seat, and Sherlock in the middle. The detective was unhappy with his seat, because he was next to a mother and toddler. The toddler was continuously attempting to touch Sherlock, who would lean away with a repulsed expression every time. The mother took no notice.

The case that had captured Sherlock's attention seemed simple, but it had been going on for two months and no one had a clue as to what was happening. A person would be found dead in their home, with all of their fingers and toes cut off and their heart stabbed out.

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair.

"I thought flying was supposed to be quick," he griped.

"You do realize that we have to fly over the Atlantic," John said.

"Of course I do, don't insult my intelligence," Sherlock sneered.

"Considering that yesterday I found out that you didn't know what reality television is…"

"Yes, well, I know many more things than that," Sherlock shot back. "I know that the woman next to me is flying out to visit her son because he was just diagnosed with a deadly disease, and that she's having an affair with her boss! I know that she grew up in Italy and dropped out of high school! Did _you_ know that, John? Or is your mind so astoundingly dull that it can't see the obvious?"

The woman next to them had her jaw opened and she seemed to be struggling between shouting at Sherlock or punching him, but one look at the anger pouring off of him and she quickly averted her eyes.

"Sherlock," John said quietly. "That's not okay. Apologize."

"Oh, please, John. I insult you all the time. Often you don't even notice. Since when do I have to _apologize_ to you?"

"Not to me, Sherlock. To that poor woman whose privacy you just violated."

"Fine," Sherlock hissed. " _Sorry_ ," he practically shouted at the woman, then he violently leaned backwards, shut his eyes, placed his fingertips below his chin, and returned to his mind palace.

Finally, at the end of a long day, they reached the Maine airport after having to catch a layover in Florida. They took a taxi to their hotel, which was in Portland, and after obtaining their room key, they took the elevator to their room.

"This is nice," John said, who was in a better mood after the transit was over. Sherlock too seemed to be in a better mood after having spent a solid three hours in his mind palace. Their room was simple with two queen beds and a view of the small city.  
Sherlock observed the view. "Where's the _city_?" he asked, exasperated. "I thought that this was one of the largest cities in Maine?"

"It is," John said. "Bit different from London."

Sherlock took his violin out of his bag, which he had insisted on bringing, and began a high pitched tune.

"Um, Sherlock. We're in a hotel, and it's ten at night," John said, rubbing his eyes.

"So?"

"So, not only do I want to get to sleep, but there are also children in this hotel that I'm sure won't want to listen to a violin," then added after seeing a slightly confused expression on his friend's face, "Even if the violin is being played impeccably."

The next day, they were driving their rented car down the highway. They stopped at a small diner on their way their. It was filled with locals who seemed intrigued by them.

"From England?" their waitress asked as she served them eggs and coffee. "Why are you folks coming to Maine?"

"Mur-" Sherlock began, but John quickly spoke over him.

"Our jobs," he smiled.

After, they drove into a small town, they reached the house where the last person was found.

Sherlock hopped out of the car, pulling on his scarf.

"Sherlock, remember to be nice to the police here. You're not speaking to Lestrade, remember, you're speaking to people who rarely see crime during their life. We're not in London," John warned. Sherlock didn't answer.

"Who is in charge here?" Sherlock asked matter-of-factly.

"Dawson is," answered the cop that was standing on the edge of the lawn. "I'm afraid you can't go any further, sir. Crime scene."

"Yes, that's why I'm here," Sherlock said, irritated.

"Sorry," John cut in. "I'm John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective. Just give us five minutes and he can give you data."

The cop frowned. "We have data. Sorry, I can't let you on the scene."

"You have data, yet it's been two months and you haven't solved it," Sherlock said. "Give me just two minutes, even, and I promise you that I'll have more information than you've collected over the past week." His face was hopeful, and John knew how desperate he was to see the body. He pulled from the depths of his coat pocket the badge he had nicked from Lestrade, and waved it in front of the cop. "See? I have proof," Sherlock said, and pulled the badge back into his pocket; clearly, he didn't want the cop seeing the name "Lestrade" on the badge after John having said his name was Holmes.

"Well, I suppose if you're a detective," the cop said, scratching his chin. "Who's your boss? Obviously you're not from around here, from the accent, so I just need more verification. Put your boss on the phone," he decided finally.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and quickly phoned Lestrade, then handed the phone to the cop.

"Scotland Yard? From London?" the cop was saying. "Right. Okay. Thanks." He gestured forward. "You guys can head on in," he permitted. Sherlock's smile broke across his face and he nearly sprinted toward the house, pausing on the outside to observe the sidewalk.

They walked inside, receiving several, glances from officers, but the cop outside must have already told them the consulting detective was coming inside with a walkie talkie. The gave John and Sherlock space.

The body belonged to a teenager. All of her fingers and toes laid on the bloody carpet below her, completely severed from her body.

Sherlock crouched next to her, prodding her body, and sniffing her clothing. Finally, he stood up, and looked at John, who bent down next to her and evaluated the body.

"Well?" Dawson asked after watching their performance. "What have you got?"

"Dead for seventeen hours," John said. "She has no indications of harm to her body aside from the severed fingers, toes, and stabbed out heart. No signs of a struggle." He turned to Sherlock, who took a deep breath.  
"Drugged," he said confidently.

Dawson scowled. "No, there's no traces of poison in her system. We checked."

"There are," Sherlock corrected under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing. But she was clearly drugged," he said, looking around at them all. "Really? You don't see it?"

"Just walk us through, Sherlock," John said, exasperated.

"Alright. First, I immediately took note of this girl's appearance in all of the photos around the house. If you had all observed, you would have noticed that she always dressed with her hair neat and pinned up, and she wore blouses and skirts. Very well-dressed. Yet, she's dead with her hair down and she's wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt. Clearly, she wasn't planning on going to school yesterday. Now, she obviously went out for breakfast, because she has a ketchup stain on her shirt and her breath smells of coffee. And no, she didn't eat at her house, because she has her purse on her, so she went out to breakfast then returned home. Why was she skipping school? Most likely complications with her boyfriend. She came back, but didn't eat anything else, despite it being much later than lunch, because she still has egg in her teeth. She's not anorexic, so she wasn't feeling well, then. No one else was home, obviously, and it wasn't intentional suicide because why would she chop her toes and fingers off first? No, I think that she was drugged at the diner she ate breakfast at, returned home because she wasn't feeling well, and most likely was hallucinating due to the drug. She was home alone when she cut off her own fingers and toes then stabbed herself."

"Brilliant," John breathed. Dawson's eyebrows were raised high.

"If you're just making this up, Mr. Holmes…" He shook his head. "What diner?"

"I'm going to figure that out. John, I need you to visit the families of all of the other victims to ensure that my hypothesis is consistent for each victim. Ask if they had been out to eat, what they've done, et cetera. I'll find the diner and the murderer within the hour, officer," Sherlock said enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. "I'll admit, this case was much more simple than I had thought, but nonetheless still fun."

John obliged Sherlock's orders and after asking Dawson where the other victims lived, he drove Sherlock to a large, family owned diner in town (Sherlock's first guess) then drove himself to the house of one of the earlier victims. Sherlock would be walking to the other diners, because they were all centrally located in the town.

Sure enough, Sherlock's hypothesis had been accurate. The wife of the family said that her husband had indeed gone out to breakfast, but he hadn't said where. John thanked them and drove to the next location. It was beginning to rain, and the driveway was long, tucked deep in the woods.

To his annoyance, the family wasn't home. He turned, about to leave the porch, when his heart suddenly flipped in his chest. Hundreds of spiders were climbing up the porch stairs.

They were large, black, and had red prints on their large rear ends. Their legs made small clicks as they scuttled onto the porch. John leapt backwards, shocked at how many there were; it was as though there was a sea of spiders below.

To his horror, they began to climb his chair that he was perched on in terror. They were gnawing at him, and he gasped in fear as they overwhelmed his toes. Desperate, he pulled out his jackknife, and began to hack at them, using all of his strength in order to get the wretched spiders off of his toes. They wouldn't stop, but he fought back screaming, because he was a soldier, and he wasn't going to let an army of spiders make him scream. But they climbed his arms, scurrying down to his fingers, which throbbed underneath them, and he violently hacked at the spiders, anything to get them off.

It seemed that it was hours that the spiders were on him, when they changed direction and made for his chest. His breath caught as they began to eat out his chest, digging their pinscers into him, swarming his heart…

The sound of a baritone voice broke the scuttling sound of the spiders, but John didn't hear it, because he was too busy lacerating the spiders as best as he could, killing as many as possible, and suddenly, there was a voice, screaming his name.

"John! _John!"_

A hand had taken the jackknife out of his hand, and now John screamed, because the spiders were descending on him, and he had no weapon against them…

"John, stop it, you're hallucinating, they aren't real!"

They aren't real.

They aren't real.

 _They aren't real._

He opened his eyes. The spiders were gone, and Sherlock was above him, pressing his scarf against John's chest.

"The spiders," he cried out, because he had to warn Sherlock, what if they came back?

"They're not real, John, you were hallucinating," Sherlock was saying, then he felt the pain. It was on his hands and feet, and his chest, it felt like it was going to split. He managed to say "spiders" one last time before blacking out.

He woke up in a white room. Obviously a hospital. Sherlock was sitting, clearly thinking hard. John sat up, gasping as pain flared through him.

"Sherlock?" he asked. The detective's eyes shot open.

"John, you moron," Sherlock said, a disgruntled expression on his face.

"What happened?"

"Apparently the diner that was serving people hallucinogens was the one that we ate at this morning."

John closed his eyes, remembering the swarm of spiders that had been crawling over him relentlessly. "But… it was so real. They attacked my fingers, my toes, my heart…" He gasped as everything fell into place. He tried to wiggle his toes and fingers. He only felt a pinky and index finger on one hand and a thumb on the other. No toes.  
"Sherlock!" he cried out. "My fingers - my toes!"

"That's why I called you a moron. You hacked them off yourself, John, in attempt to protect yourself from the spiders," the detective said brusquely, and despite his tone of voice, John could see lines of worry etched into his face, and the fact that his flatmate appeared to care suddenly made the situation feel even more drastic. "You almost died from blood loss after stabbing at your chest. I got there just in time, after realizing that the diner that served the hallucinogens was the same one that we ate at."  
"What a stupid way to almost die," John muttered. "Attacking spiders that were all in my imagination."

"The doctors say they can reattach most of your missing fingers and toes," Sherlock said cheerfully, and lifted a bloody plastic baggie. John nearly vomited.

"Sherlock! Don't show those to me!" he shouted. Sherlock quickly put them back down.

"I swear, if you tell Scotland Yard that I almost killed myself because of imaginary insects, I will…" John said in a low voice.

"Don't worry, John, I will not tell a soul," Sherlock confirmed. Something was awfully suspicious about the tense he used.

"You already did, didn't you?"

"Sorry, John. Don't worry, no one will judge you," Sherlock said, smiling, and then the nurse came in.

"You must be enjoying your trip to Maine," she said jokingly.

"You have no idea," John replied, and offered a half-hearted smile back.

 **Author's note: So I thought that hallucinations would be fun to write, and they were. Please comment and let me know how I should improve! Thank you so much for reading this, it means a lot to me!**


	3. Plague - John

**Author's Note: I thought that bubonic plague would be a fun idea to toy with, so here you go! Don't forget to review and let me know how I should improve!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. Also, my apologies if I don't get all of the medical information accurately, just let me know if I made a mistake! :)**

"This game isn't fair," Sherlock announced, and he raised his hand to swipe the gameboard off of the coffee table.

"Hang on a minute!" John interrupted. "Just because you're not winning at a game for the first time doesn't mean that you can just _quit_ -"

"Yes, but it's Cluedo, John! A murder mystery game, and you're winning! Do you know how humiliating this is?"

"Sherlock, it's just a game."

"A game that is incredibly reliant upon chance! How was I supposed to know the correct weapon when there's no crime scene? I have to just _guess_ and try to determine the answer from trial and error?"

"Yes, that's the point," John said, amused at his friend being stumped by a murder mystery that wasn't in real life. "We can play Monopoly instead, if you want."

"No, you win at the one too. How about a game of chess?" Sherlock asked, a smiling twitching at the edge of his mouth. John was about to decline - there was no way in a million years that he could beat Sherlock in a game of chess - when an alarm went off in the kitchen. Sherlock leapt up.

"The experiment!" he cried excitedly, and he had vanished behind a stack of glass vials, his microscope, and graphs.

John picked up the game, slightly pleased with himself for beating a consulting detective in a murder mystery game, even if it was heavily reliant upon luck. While Sherlock was absorbed in the experiment, he left the flat to pick up takeaway, and when he brought it back, his friend appeared to not have moved.

"Are you eating tonight, Sherlock?"

"Hmm? What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"Ah. I'm fine. I ate yesterday."

"Then you're eating tonight," John said forcefully, and shoved a plate of food underneath Sherlock's nose.

" _Fine_ ," Sherlock said, an obstinate expression on his face. "I suppose, since there's no case right now…" He sighed and took a bite of the food, and his hand knocked a vial off of the counter and onto the floor. Both men froze, watching the green gas being emitted from the vial.

"Don't breathe, John!" Sherlock shouted. "We need to get out!"

The green cloud enveloped them as they tumbled over each other to get out of the kitchen, but it was too late, they were both coughing, and staggering from the effects of the gas. John went to pull open the door.

"No!" Sherlock yelled so forcefully that John immediately stopped what he was doing. "It's too late, keep it shut!"

The green gas began to dissipate, and after another twenty seconds, it had disintegrated into the air.

"What - _was_ \- that?" John asked, fearing the worst. He was swaying slightly; the gas was dizzying.

"Not good," Sherlock said, and for the first time in his life, he appeared - there was no other way to describe it - forlorn. "Not good at all."

John's head was spinning, so he sat down in his armchair. Sherlock followed suit, slightly ungracefully.

"So? What was that?" John asked, fearing what sort of monstrosity had been in the vial. Sherlock looked at his feet.

"Bubonic plague," the detective said so quietly that John almost didn't hear. "Black death. The same disease in medieval times that killed a third of Europe."

"You had _bubonic bloody plague_ in our kitchen," John bellowed. "Right. Right! So what now, we die? Are we carrying the pathogen?"

"Yes, it attaches to organisms. We're carrying it. There's a chance that we won't get it, and if we don't, then the pathogen will die within five days. If not, either we die, or we barely survive it," Sherlock said, looking rather afraid.

"Should I call an ambulance?"

"What? No! Don't be stupid, John! We can't let _anyone_ in the flat. Mrs. Hudson will be okay. But if anyone is exposed to us, they're exposed to the pathogen, and if they carry it, London could erupt in a full scale epidemic of bubonic plague."

"But why would you have bubonic plague in the kitchen, Sherlock? Of all things!"

He was feeling nauseous, simply out of shock, and was frankly unsure of how to react.

"I… am truly sorry, John," Sherlock said, and his voice was deadly serious.

John sighed. "There's nothing we can do now but wait for symptoms, right? What are the symptoms, anyway?" he asked nervously.

"Lymph nodes in the groins and armpits, then abdominal pain, fevers, chills, fatigue, vomiting, phlegm, muscle spasms, seizures, and shortness of breath," Sherlock said rapidly, as though reading straight from a textbook.

"And we can't even go to a doctor? Or a hospital, for antibiotics?"

"John, we can't let anyone be exposed to us. It's doubtful that even two seconds of being in our flat to give us antibiotics would transmit the disease, but we can't risk it."

"Right. Right," John said. "Well, I guess - I guess, I'll, um… be going to bed."

"Good night, John," Sherlock said, his fingers underneath his chin and eyes shut. "I'll be working on an antidote."

John shook his head and went up to his bed. Strangely, though he doubted that Sherlock could simply create an antibiotic, or better yet, a cure, right in their kitchen, he felt slightly reassured knowing that the detective would be working on it.

It was two days later when both John and Sherlock were on edge. It was the day that, if they were going to show symptoms, that they would begin to feel them. They didn't eat much, nor do much, except for Sherlock, who was thinking the day away and researching maniacally on his laptop. John too was doing research, but he doubted that his research was reaching the extent of Sherlock's.

Mycroft had not been alerted of the occurrence. Sherlock had texted his brother saying not to bother him because he was thinking about a particular case, and this was usual for the Holmes brothers, so Mycroft was unaware of the situation. Mrs. Hudson had attempted to enter Baker Street the day before, but Sherlock had flung himself against the door immediately, claiming that him and John were doing an experiment that had to do with no human contact. Lestrade hadn't tried to come in yet, but he had texted Sherlock several times desperately because of a particularly mind-boggling case. Sherlock solved the case from the flat, but told Lestrade that him and John were in Scotland doing a case, so they wouldn't be around.

"Why would you tell them all different stories?" John had asked, exasperated. "Now, if they talk to each other, they'll all think that we're doing something different!"

"I don't care. I just said whatever came to mind first," Sherlock replied flatly.

It was before lunch when John first felt it, and it sent a chill down his spine. There was a small ache under his arm, right on his side. He pressed it gently; it was tender. He let out a shaky breath, unsure of whether he should tell Sherlock. He decided against it - he would wait until it actually seemed serious.

He went back into the kitchen as though everything were normal.

"Want lunch?" he asked his friend, and didn't bother for an answer before making them both sandwiches. He slid the plate over to Sherlock and began his own sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. If he did have the disease, there was an extremely small chance that he would survive it. Of course, Sherlock could be able to come up with a cure for the particular strain he had - he didn't underestimate his friend's intellectual ability, but still, a cure for the disease seemed absurd. He tried not to think about it, because they were both already exposed to the strain, and there was nothing much to do about it now.

John suddenly put down his sandwich. Nausea broiled through him, and there was no way that he would finish the sandwich. Subconsciously he put his hand to his side; it felt swollen.

Sherlock was analyzing him with narrow eyes. Of course this hadn't slipped past the detective's observational skills.

"John," he said quietly. "You got it?"

John swallowed, trying to maintain a calm expression. "I think so."

They both stared at each other for several moments. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"What are your symptoms?"

"There's a small lump under my armpit, and it's rather painful. It's already swelling. And nausea, I think."

"Then go to bed. Rest won't hurt, and it will help me to think better and more if it's silent down here."

John realized that his flatmate's words were true, so he went up the stairs and shut his bedroom door. He didn't intend on sleeping, but he laid down on the bed, and once his head met his pillow, he fell asleep.

Sherlock was studying the strain under his microscope.

 _Think._

It was bubonic plague, but it was also his strain, and that meant he had more power over it than if it was a case of bubonic plague from medieval times.

There had to be a way that he could cure this disease. He made it, so he must be able to cure it. He closed his eyes for several seconds, ruffled his curly hair, then reopened his gaze through the microscope.

John woke up in pain.

The lump under his arm was the size of an egg. There was another under his other arm now, and one on his upper thigh. He was freezing and nauseous.

He took his temperature, and felt fear shiver through him at the number. He sat, huddled under blankets in his bed, when he suddenly felt vomit coming. He sprinted into the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time. His boils flared in pain at the movement.

Wiping his mouth, he stood up shakily, only to meet the gaze of Sherlock.

"Lymph nodes, vomiting, chills?" he evaluated. John nodded.

"And a fever of 38.8. Do… do you have symptoms?" John asked, afraid of the answer. Sherlock met his eyes.

"No, nothing. It's late night of the second day… I think I can safely say that I am resistant to the particular strain of bubonic plague we are carrying."

"Thank goodness," John said, so relieved that his friend wouldn't have to experience the disease. He suddenly vomited again. Sherlock stood back tentatively, as though he were unsure if he should do anything. John suddenly felt mortified being this weak in front of his friend.

"John… it would be considerably helpful if you did something for me," Sherlock said hesitantly. "Could you please take a sample of the pus in the swollen lymph nodes? It would be immensely helpful for me to find a cure."

John looked at him warily. "Okay," he said. "Do you have something to…"

Sherlock thrust a needle and syringe to him.

"Okay, thanks. "

"I'll give you privacy," Sherlock said quickly. "Just bring it downstairs when you're done."

John obliged Sherlock's orders. He poised the needle above the boil, then gently pressed it. Pus leaked out and he collected it in the syringe, trying hard not to vomit again at the sight. Once the syringe was filled with the thick pus, he brought it downstairs and set it on the counter.

"How much longer do I have? If I don't survive?" John asked bluntly.

"I'd say about three days," Sherlock said, his face unreadable.

John woke up in the middle of the night to vomit again. He was so cold that his muscles felt as though they were spasming. He nearly fell on his way back to his bed, and collapsed into his blankets. There were boils everywhere now, and each felt like a knife in his skin. One had a black dot on it. The first black dot. Bile rose in his throat and he choked it down before coughing up phlegm. If he wasn't so afraid for his life, he would have nearly passed out from disgust. He returned to the bathroom to vomit again, but when he stood up to return to his bedroom, his legs wouldn't provide the strength. They were limp.

John slid down onto the floor, trying to regain his breath. He wasn't going to call for Sherlock, that would be embarrassing and he didn't want to bother the detective while he was doing research. He decided to remain on the floor and not try to stand up for fear of falling.

Fifteen minutes later, his legs felt less shaky, so he stumbled upwards. This was a mistake. Immediately they gave out again, and he fell to the floor in a heap.

There was no way that Sherlock hadn't heard that.

Sure enough, the detective was at the bathroom in seconds.

"John?" came the baritone voice from the other side of the door.

"I'm fine, just give me a moment," John said, frantically trying to pull himself to his feet. He managed to, clutching the sink for support. It was as though he had lost control of his legs' muscles.

"John, can you walk?" Sherlock was asking.

Why did he always have to know what was going on?

"No," John said finally after several moments. "But - but I don't need any help, I'll be fine in a few moments."

"I'm coming in," replied Sherlock, and he opened the door. His eyes flickered over the boils but he didn't say anything. He helped John walk out of the bathroom and back to bed.

"Do you need anything? Water? Food?"

"No, no, I'm fine, thanks, Sherlock," John said wearily. He turned to his friend. "What about _you_? You're not neglecting yourself, are you? I want you to sleep - please Sherlock, don't argue - at least five hours tonight. Go to bed. Eat dinner, there are leftovers in the fridge."

"John, don't worry about me. You're the one with bubonic plague." He shut off the light and left the doctor in his bedroom.

He was trying to not let it show, but he was experiencing something different than the usual logical and cold disposition he maintained. He supposed it was concern.

He didn't sleep that night, nor did he eat anything. He spent the entire night looking at his microscope, absolutely terrified at the prospect of John dying.

John shuffled downstairs to find the detective staring mutely into his microscope.

"Sherlock? Have you eaten anything?" he asked, and sat down in his chair. "Or slept?" he added. Sherlock was spared answering when John leapt up to go to the bathroom. The sound of vomiting commenced. John finished, collapsed on the floor again. His stomach heaved and he upchucked again; this time, there was a much more sinister appearance to the vomit.

"Sherlock!" he called out, sitting back against the wall trying to catch his breath. "Sherlock, there's - there's blood in my-" he choked on the last word. Sherlock was there in an instant.

"Stay awake, John," Sherlock was commanding him, and it was only then that he realized his eyes were closed. He reopened them to find Sherlock next to him.

It was then that sharp pains wracked his body, and he lost consciousness.

He woke up on the couch. Sherlock must have moved him. He couldn't move, his muscles were too sore and exhausted.

"What happened?" he asked Sherlock, who was pacing in the kitchen.

"You had a seizure," Sherlock replied. "Luckily for you, I think I might have found a cure. I need to incubate bacteria in it for another ten hours, then it will be ready."

John felt relief course through him. "Sherlock! How on earth did you-?"

"It was elementary, once I determined the ratio of magnesium compounds in order to balance the hydrogen ions. I'm rather disappointed it took me this long."

John shivered.

"Could I get a blanket, please?" he chattered to Sherlock. He was beginning to notice how cold he was; it was as though he was in an icebox. Sherlock brought over a wool blanket. John closed his eyes as he felt the blanket encompassing him; he was vaguely aware of it and fell back into unconsciousness.

Nine hours later, Sherlock was still in the kitchen waiting for the bacteria to incubate. It was nearly dawn, and John had had the plague for fifty hours. The cure could be administered most likely at this time, but he was waiting just to be safe. John was on the couch.

John was laying there, feeling slightly annoyed because his muscles had passed beyond his control, when suddenly his breath caught.

"Sherlock!" he gasped, fighting for breath that wasn't coming, because he couldn't breathe, and this was the end, and red spots decorated his vision. He wasn't aware of his muscles thrashing and spasming until he barely felt his friend's hands trying to contain him, heard his name being shouted, and suddenly an extreme pain shot into his thigh before all went black.

"Sherlock?" John could feel his mouth saying. He felt stiff and fatigued.

"John?" came his friend's voice back. Slowly, the room came into view; they were in Baker Street still.

"What happened?" John asked groggily.

"Well, I think you were… dying," Sherlock began, and John was shocked to see the detective's eyes red.

"Were you crying, Sherlock?" John asked, surprised.

"What? No!" Sherlock said defensively. "It's the chemicals I was working with."

John tried to smile but found that it hurt too much. Sherlock averted John's eye contact.

"If you must know, John… You died."

John's inward smile faded.

"You had another seizure, so I injected the cure into you, and your heart stopped. You weren't breathing. For a full minute," Sherlock said. "I… thought that you had passed."

John managed a weak smile. "Well, I didn't die, thanks to your brilliance, Sherlock."

John recovered a full week later. Soon, it was only a thing of the past, one of Sherlock's

experiments gone horribly wrong, almost to the point of unleashing the Black Death on Europe once again.

 **Thanks so much for reading this! Please give me a review, I'd love to hear feedback and it would make my day! :)**


	4. Starvation - Sherlock

**This chapter will be a bit shorter because I'm writing it in school, I'm sorry! This upcoming weekend I'll be writing a much longer one, most likely updating on Sunday. Don't forget to please review/favorite/follow, it would make my day!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. All rights go to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the incredible Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

The sound of Sherlock's phone ringing snapped the detective to attention. He picked it up immediately.

"Where's the body this time?" he demanded impatiently. "Alright. Make sure Anderson doesn't get his stupidity over the body, Garrett." With that, he hung up, and dashed to his coat and scarf.

"Let's go, John!" Sherlock yelled. "New body! This one is fresh!"

John followed, inaudibly sighing at his friend's excitement over a murder. There had recently been a string of murders. All of the victims had been hanged, and had a symbol carved into their chest. Strung together, the symbols seemed to form a code, and Sherlock was determined to crack it, but he needed more samples of the code in order to crack it. He had only six symbols so far, yet had spent many hours researching and studying the strange code.

"Hang on, Sherlock," John said. "I'm making us sandwiches first. When did you last eat?"

"Oh, I don't know. Not that long ago. Wednesday morning, I think," Sherlock said absentmindedly.  
"Right. It's Saturday afternoon. I'm making you a sandwich."  
"What? No! I'm on a case, John, you don't understand - I function most productively when I'm not weighted down by human necessities!"

"Well, you won't be functioning very well when you've passed out from hunger," John said. "Here." He thrust a sandwich at the tall, skinny man.

"No," the detective said. He tapped his feet. "Let's _go_! Dead bodies are time sensitive! You're destroying the data by making these disgusting sandwiches! I don't need your help!"

John silently followed Sherlock into a cab.

"There were three murders, one per day, then a day without a murder. Then, three more, all consistently one per day, and now another today, the next day. Assuming that the symbols form a sentence sequentially, we know that this symbol is not an a, h, i, j, k, q, u, v, w, x, y, and most likely not a z," Sherlock recited. "Of course, each symbol could mean a word, and not directly translate to a letter. I've considered that many times, but we don't have enough data to analyze that theory, so I am left to study the possibility of a Caesar cipher." He turned to John, ready to say more, but slowly closed his mouth. John wasn't listening. He knew Sherlock would immediately pick up on this, but wanted the detective to apologize for acting like a child back at Baker Street. There was silence.

"John, I know you're annoyed that I didn't eat your sandwich," Sherlock was saying.

John interrupted. "No, it's not the fact that you didn't eat the sandwich I made for you. It's the lack of care that you provide for yourself that annoys me. You shouldn't need me telling you when to eat, and you shouldn't be starving yourself like this."  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, slightly impatiently. John didn't answer. This time, it was a more pleading apology. "I am sorry, John." His voice got softer. "Please listen to my theories. You're, er, you're usually the only person that listens to me. And, as much as I hate to admit it, it… pains me to see you ignoring me."

John knew at once that while the words might be true, Sherlock didn't usually open up like this, so he supposed the detective was appealing to John's emotional side to provoke forgiveness. He conceded.

"It's fine, Sherlock," he sighed. "Just… promise me you'll eat when we get back to Baker Street?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock said diplomatically. The cab arrived at their destination and Sherlock leapt out of the cab. His long coat flapped in the wind, and his curls were thrown backward wildly. It was staggeringly windy. Sherlock stumbled, and John was somehow pleased by the fact that the usually smooth, cold man was knocked a bit by the wind. The detective regained his composure immediately and hurried over to Lestrade. There was a body hanging gruesomely from a tree

"Let me see the new symbol," he commanded.

"Please," John added.

"Please," Sherlock agreed.

"Right," Lestrade said, not at all bothered by Sherlock's blunt attitude. "An elderly man was walking his dog this morning when he found the body. It's a teen boy this time." He lifted back the shirt for Sherlock to see.

An elaborate symbol had been carved into the pale chest. It seemed to look like a cross between a cursive "f" and an "o".

"So? What do you think?" Lestrade asked.

"It's the same symbol that was at the end of the first three letter word," Sherlock said rapidly. "Most likely an 'e', then, but I can't… be sure… until -" He trailed off suddenly in a very un-Sherlock-ish way.

"Until…?" Lestrade prompted.

"I… am unsure of where I was going with my statement," Sherlock said, a confused expression on his face.

"You know, that happens to most normal people," John informed him. "Forgetting what you're about to say."

Sherlock looked scandalized.

It was then that the sound of another police car came into earshot. Sherlock's expression suddenly twisted into a scowl.

"Who's on forensics?" he insisted, but his question was answered a moment later when two people stepped out of a car. The detective's disposition immediately shifted.

"Hello, Anderson," Sherlock said pleasantly. "Have you come to blunder your way

through the evidence, or worse yet poison us all with your incompetence?"

However, he stepped aside (rather disgruntled, of course) to allow Anderson to make his evaluation. They all waited, very aware that Sherlock was watching every move of Anderson's and judging him.

"Here's what I've got," Anderson finally said rather assertively. "Teen boy, between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. He was hanged about an hour ago, and there wasn't much of a struggle. His attacker left no trace."

As expected, Sherlock snorted in response to this evaluation. John sighed.

"What've you got, Sherlock?" he asked, and Sherlock wasted no time delaying.

"Seventeen year old boy in his junior year. Skateboarder, by the scuffs on his shoes, and the fact that there's an abandoned skateboard lying a mere twenty feet from us. He was clearly drugged before being hanged, due to the obvious disruption to his shirt sleeve and the even more obvious syringe mark, if you had cared to observe it. Now, his attacker. His attacker was most likely drunk, so our serial hanger has gotten a bit more confident. Yes, he was drunk, John, stop looking so painfully blank, it's obvious from the shaky job of the carving of the symbol compared to the other times and the frankly obvious alcohol stain on this boy's back, not to mention the pub being a block away and the rope being tied much more poorly than last time!" Sherlock snapped, then continued. "His attacker was approximately five foot ten. A male, pigeon toed," he finished. There was a small pause of several seconds before Sherlock's face paled and he closed his eyes briefly for five seconds while inhaling sharply.

"You alright, mate?" John asked, concerned.

"What? After we, once we… leave here," Sherlock said incoherently, waving his hand vaguely, and clearly having no clue of what John had said.

"Donovan, take notes on everything Sherlock just told us. And, uh, Anderson, too," Lestrade added, blushing slightly. "We need to begin planning for the next victim, hopefully prohibit it from happening in the first place."  
"No!" Sherlock objected, having recovered. "Then we can't solve the code! If we catch the murderer, we might never again see such a beautifully _entertaining_ form of cryptography!" With that being said, he suddenly let out a small gasp and sank to his feet. John was at his side immediately.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" he asked worriedly. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Sherlock cast an angry look at Anderson before muttering, "John, I-". He stopped to breathe, his breaths short. John felt for his pulse. It felt slightly weaker than it should.

Sherlock began to speak again, now slurring his words. "I suppose… I'd like the sandwich you offered."

John cursed himself. How could he have forgotten? Sherlock hadn't eaten in days. As soon as he thought that, the detective passed out.

"Sherlock!" he cried out, shaking him gently. "Okay, Lestrade, we need to get back to Baker Street. Sorry."  
"What's happening?" Lestrade asked quizzically, looking apprehensive. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine," John said, "He's just forgotten to feed himself. Starving, literally, I'd expect. I'll get him to eat something."  
"He calls us morons and he can't remember to even eat?" Anderson asked incredulously, then added in a snide voice, "Oh, I can't wait to have something finally to bring up about him."

"Don't say a word," John said angrily. "Do you hear me? Not a word about this. If you do, I swear I will find you and kill you." Lestrade shot John an uncomfortable look, but John didn't care; for some reason, despite how rude Sherlock was, he couldn't stand the thought of his friend being ridiculed for forgetting to eat, considering his nickname from Donovan was already "Freak".

"Better?" John asked after they had returned to the flat and Sherlock was gingerly eating the sandwich from earlier. "Next time, will you listen when I offer you food?"

"I apologize, John. Thank you for dealing with my obstinence," Sherlock replied, and sipped his tea. "Did - did Anderson see?" His face twinged with mortification.

"Well, yes," John admitted. "But I told him I'd kill him if he said a word."

"You did?" Sherlock said, surprised. "Well, now I want him to say a word about it."

They laughed, and John flicked on the television while Sherlock began to study the codes with the new symbol added to them again.

 **So, I actually really enjoyed writing this one. Please comment what I should write next and also how I should improve/what you enjoyed! Please, please, please follow/favorite, it would literally make me so happy! Thanks so much for reading, I really appreciate it!**


	5. Hypothermia - John

**Summary: John is left in the middle of nowhere in the winter and experiences hypothermia.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plot-lines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American, and I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

Sherlock and John trudged through the heavy snow in the forest, quite literally in the middle of nowhere.

They were on the heels of what had been dubbed "The Hermit Killer"; a hermit who ventured onto the hiking trails every other day to brutally kill his victim with a blunt heavy object, hence the name "The Hermit Killer".

Sherlock seemed particularly interested in the case. Although there wasn't much mystery to it - Scotland Yard had been able to solve it before Sherlock had come to the crime scene - the detective was eager to catch the criminal. Perhaps it was because the string of murders had been outside of the city, and there was a change of scenery.

It was a lovely winter day. Sherlock was wearing his Belstaff and scarf (obviously) and John his dark jacket, but they were comfortably wandering the snowy white forest in search for the hermit's home, and more importantly, the hermit himself. The temperature must have been about 4° Celsius, and the sun was reflecting brilliantly on the ice crystals that lay undisturbed on the forest floor.

"John! See that?" Sherlock said suddenly, pointing at a tree several meters away. John looked at it, but couldn't see anything spectacular about it.

"What about it?" he asked.

"One of the branches! It's missing, you can see the stump of it! It's clean-cut, so I think that we're close to our hermit." He suddenly whipped his head around.

"Alright. John, you go off that way," Sherlock indicated to the left, "and I'll go to the right. He's got to be around, and there's no way we'll miss him." He began to run through the heavy snow.

"Wait!" John yelled, and reluctantly the detective came to a stop. "What time should we meet back here? Our phones don't have reception."

Sherlock glanced up at the sun. It was currently around two in the afternoon.

"Three," he decided. "If we haven't found our hermit yet, we can move forward more."

John nodded in consent and began to trudge in the opposite direction of Sherlock, who he was aware was moving much quicker than he was. Despite the beautiful day, his toes were cold, and he was dearly hoping that they would find the killer rather soon so that they could return to 221B Baker Street for a hot shower, tea, and maybe a movie.

It was then that he saw a lumbered figure in between the trees far ahead. The figure was facing the other direction, and it appeared to be the hermit. John quickly fired off a text of his location to Sherlock before he remembered there was no reception. He'd have to do this alone until the hermit was aware of his presence; then, he could yell for Sherlock. He knew the detective wouldn't want to miss out.

John quietly edged through the snow, getting closer and closer. It took a while, moving so that he wouldn't make any noise, but mercifully the hermit seemed to be occupied by simply standing still and gazing out over the forest. He finally was close enough - five feet away, to be exact - so that he was certain there was no way the hermit hadn't heard him, but he pulled out his gun and pressed it to the back of the hermit's head, which remained unmoving.

"Come with me, or I promise you that I will shoot you," John threatened, thinking internally that he would most likely only shoot the hermit's foot, but if he wanted the killer to go with him, he needed to be threatening.

"Sherlock! I've got him!" he shouted, gripping the hermit's shoulder and walking him forward. It was then that several things occurred all within a fourth of a second.

First, John noticed the glint of metal - how could he have been so stupid? He hadn't noticed the hermit was holding an axe in his left hand. Second, he realized that the axe was rapidly swinging up to his face, and with one hand on the hermit's shoulder and the other holding the gun to the criminal's head, he had no way to defend himself before the axe made contact with his face.

There was a flash of red, and immediately his hands went to his face as he stumbled backward.

 _Stupid._

 _Stupid._

 _Stupid. Why didn't you check to see if he was holding anything dangerous? Sherlock wouldn't have been nearly this stupid._

He began to regain his posture when a solid, heavy force struck him in the back of his head, and he fell face-first into the snow, blackness descending on him.

He woke up feeling dizzy before a number of revelations came to him. He supposed that the hermit had struck him hard enough with the axe to incapacitate him, but not as hard as possible, or else his head would have been hurting more. He kept his eyes shut, waiting for the fog in his head to clear. It took about fifteen minutes.

Next, he realized it was dusk, and quickly getting darker. He immediately was concerned - what if Sherlock had been attacked by the hermit? John stumbled upward from where he had been collapsed in the snow under a tree. Besides, the detective should have found him, because it would have been obvious with footprints. Yet, the detective was nowhere to be found, so John could only think that he must have been hurt by the hermit.

It was then that he realized it was snowing. Of course. His footprints had been covered by a fresh coat of snow. Not to mention the fact that he suddenly noticed that this was not the place where he had been knocked unconscious far away from the aid of Sherlock.

His last revelation was that it was cold. It wasn't the lovely day it had been earlier. The snow had frozen the earth, it seemed, and his guess was that it was -12° Celsius. He shivered.

It was _bloody_ cold.

He shook away thoughts of the cold and focused on what he had learned as a doctor. His immediate danger was no longer the hermit, it was the cold. He could get hypothermia, frostbite, or pneumonia quite easily within an hour of being in these temperatures. Fortunately, it wasn't windy. He reviewed the stages of hypothermia in his head, while zipping his jacket up, which had been unfortunately unzipped the entire time that he was unconscious in the snow.

He supposed that he could already have mild hypothermia from being in the snow. At least the temperature had been reasonable earlier. He examined his hands, which were already showing tendencies of hypothermia. They were white.

There wasn't much he could do to combat the cold except to search for Sherlock and remain moving. He tried to keep calm as the dark of night descended onto the forest.

But it was _cold._

"Sherlock!" he called out with as much strength as possible, then pulled out his phone. His fingers felt stiff and numb, and the typing took a long time because his fingers were moving so slowly. He sent a description of his location, as detailed as possible, to Sherlock. He hoped dearly that his friend wasn't hurt. At least the detective himself had less of a chance of getting hypothermia, John reassured himself, because he had his Belstaff and a scarf; that would keep him warmer longer.

He tripped suddenly and fell into the snow. Not a good sign. He struggled to stand up again, but resorted himself to the snow. It would only waste his energy, moving around, and he decided it would be better to rest in the snow. Somewhere in the back of his head, words circulated, and he knew that poor decision making would come, but this wasn't a poor decision, was it? He realized he was mumbling his thoughts out loud.

 _Stop it_ , he chided himself. _It's only a bit of cold_.

But he couldn't stop shivering violently.

He wasn't sure how long that he sat in the snow, every so often mustering the strength to call out for Sherlock, and waiting for help, because now his legs wouldn't work. He had tried standing up again, only to fall back into the snow. Besides, what if his text suddenly went through to Sherlock? He needed to stay in this place for the detective to find him.

He was hungry, too. Hungry, shivering, and weak. What a miserable night it had turned out to be. He hadn't even successfully captured the hermit. He measured his breathing, and tried to stand again, because he needed to generate more heat.

 **Three hours earlier**

Sherlock had found the hermit. He had seen the stout fellow walking quickly, carrying an axe, and followed him straight to his little hut. The detective slipped, unnoticed, into the hermit's home, and hid. It was cozy and warm in the hut as soon as the hermit had started a fire. Sherlock waited for the proper moment to launch his attack on the hermit. He waited until the man had set down his axe, then sprung out and pinned him to the wall. It hadn't taken long for him to tie the hermit up. He paced the floor. It was just about three o'clock, so he had to leave to meet John back at the spot they had agreed upon, but the doctor would understand if he was a few minutes late because he had to drag the hermit along, right? He decided to do that, and dragged the hermit with him out into the afternoon sun, which was beginning to get clouded over by snow clouds.

He reached the spot they had agreed to meet at twenty minutes late. John wasn't there. Sherlock checked his phone. Still no reception. He waited with his hermit friend, who hadn't spoken a word until that moment.

"What're you doin', jus' standin' here in the snow?" the hermit wheezed. "Le' me go! I wanna return to m' house, what're you doin'?"

Sherlock paced through the snow. "Waiting for a friend," he answered coldly, and immediately observed the hermit's reaction.

"You've seen someone today," Sherlock guessed, based on how the hermit's eyes had widened only very slightly. "Was it another man near my age? Short, thin, blonde?"

The hermit said nothing, but his body language was enough an answer. Sherlock shook him roughly.

" _Where - is - he_?" he growled. Mycroft's words echoed in his head.

 _Caring is not an advantage._

 _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

"Where is John Watson?" Sherlock asked firmly to the hermit, who remained silent, before slapping him in anger.

"Tell me!"

The hermit stayed silent, staring blankly into the distance.

"Tell me what you did to that man!" Sherlock commanded. He began to pull the hermit's ear, yanking it farther and farther from his head-

"Fine! I left him knocked out in the snow!" the hermit admitted. "Now le' me go! I told you, le' me go! I promise I never killed nobody! I on'y left your friend in the snow, didn't kill him!"

Sherlock barely had the patience for the hermit's poor language.

"Where is he?" he bellowed.

The hermit clammed up again. It was getting colder, and that was when the snow began to descend.

John was feeling better. It was pitch black with night now, and he supposed that meant it was also colder, but at the same time, he wasn't hungry anymore, nor was he shivering. It was getting warmer, in fact, even though in the back of John's head that sent warning alarms throughout him. But warmth was a good thing, right? Right? He wasn't quite sure what warmth was anymore, but he thought he was feeling it, because it felt like the opposite of what he had been feeling earlier.

He was falling asleep. Something kept nagging at him to stay awake, but the voice was beginning to fade, and John was relieved, because he felt that he could sleep more peacefully now. Of course, he assumed the voice was his own, because he was alone in the woods, except for the snow that was covering him like a blanket. But the snow didn't count as a companion. Although it was all he had thought about for the past thirty minutes. Or had it been three hours? He wasn't sure.

A sudden buzz in his pocket stirred him. Was it his phone? But there was no reception, he had established that. He must have been imagining it. He couldn't remember sending any texts. He couldn't remember why he was in the forest.

Sherlock hadn't come, he knew that much. He was watching the night sky and the start, and expected the detective to arrive, but he hadn't. He was alone. Except for the snow. But now the warmth, although welcomed at first, was getting irritating. He pulled off his shoes, because it made sense to let his feet breathe a bit - after all, breathing was nice. The crisp air was letting him breathe, but now the heat was suffocating that, and he was getting angry at it, and more so at the fact that he was trying to pull his jacket off but was struggling. Why? His fingers weren't shaky. At least, he didn't think they were. Finally, finally, finally, he got the jacket off. It felt so much better. He pressed his body into the snow, which was a relief after the fire that had been eating at him. He laid there, enjoying the cold. Was he sleeping? He wasn't sure. His eyes were shut, and he was dreaming at the same time, yet he was also still vaguely aware of the forest.

But the warmth - it was permeating the snow. It was burning his chest, so hot, so painful.

Sherlock was running faster than he had ever run. The hermit had refused to tell him the whereabouts of John. He was desperate, realizing how cold the air was, so he returned to the hermit's hut to think, because he couldn't waste time just wandering aimlessly. There had to be a clue, a hint, a way to find his flatmate.

He was rooting through the hermit's house to see if there was an indication of where the hermit (who was left tied to a tree in the snow) might have brought John. He couldn't find anything.

He gathered coats and mittens from the closet, slipping them on and wrapping a heavy coat and blanket around himself and ventured out into the snow. There seemed to be no choice but to wander.

After having been in the warm hut for a long duration and wearing a heavy amount of warm clothing, he was warm, but John was in danger. He had only been wearing a thin jacket. He searched, desperately, searching the most likely routes, searching the areas that John might have gone, searching for more than two hours when a buzz in his pocket made him reach in alarm to his phone. It was a text from John, sent hours before but had miraculously made it through the reception. It was a detailed description of where he was. Sherlock recognized the description and took off, sprinting through the heavy snow and dark night even faster.

A baritone voice yanked John awake. He had just fallen asleep, and now he was being moved - _shaken_ \- much to his annoyance.

"John!" the baritone voice was saying. Sherlock, John realized. Sherlock had come. He didn't remember being moved, but was dimly aware of being inside of a hut that had a fireplace roaring. He groaned, because it was excruciatingly hot, and even more so when he realized that Sherlock had bundled him in a blanket, coat, and mittens. He tried to shake the coat off, but the detective refused to let him take it off. He tried to explain how hot it was, but words wouldn't come through his mouth.

Worse was how much he wanted to sleep but couldn't. Every five seconds he was roughly shaken by strong hands. He felt suffocated by the warmth but was stuck inside of it, and this was even worse than the cold from earlier. Finally, the shaking stopped, and he was allowed to sleep.

John woke up to brightness. They were in a hut, most likely the hermit's hut. He was buried beneath a mountain of wool blankets and coats. Sherlock was sitting stiffly opposite him, fingers placed under his chin.

"Sherlock?" John rasped weakly. "What… why are we in the hermit's hut."

"Well, you decided to get hypothermia, so I thought it best for you to recover here before trekking back to our vehicle which is at least four miles away."

"I didn't _decide_ to get hypothermia!" John said, perturbed.

"Well, you made some rather stupid decisions under the influence of hypothermia. I found you with no shoes or socks and your jacket and shirt off."  
"It's called paradoxical undressing, Sherlock," John said.

"Well, if you know what it is, then why did you do it?" Sherlock snapped.

John began to retort, but then a smile tugged at his mouth. "You were worried," he said.

"Worried? I don't worry."

"Yeah? Then what's all of this?" John asked, gesturing to the immense amount of wool on top of him.

"Precautions," Sherlock said, and swept off to the kitchen. "Would you rather I let you die? Dim though you are, you conduct my intelligence, and I admit that it would be a disappointment to my career if you happened to perish. I was simply attempting to preserve the brilliance of my mind and career."

John was aware that Sherlock was defending himself from caring, and somehow it was slightly touching, knowing that the detective worried. He stood up shakily.

"Where's the hermit?" he asked.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Hmm. I forgot about him. I left him tied to a tree in the snow. I suppose he's dead now."

John shuffled over to the cupboard, where he found crackers. He took them out and grabbed a handful.

"How'd you find me?" he asked.

"Your text. It came through last night. It didn't take long for me to find you."

John paused on his way back to the couch. "You know, Sherlock, it's not the end of the world to admit that you care about someone."

Sherlock sniffed. "Fine. I was merely slightly concerned for your wellbeing. Why does that have to be listed as caring? Why are your _emotions_ so excited by the prospect of me simply offering you blankets? Next time, I might not help you, if this is the dramatic reaction that you will deliver afterward."

John put up his hands. "Sorry, sorry," he said quickly, grinning. "Let's go back to Baker Street. We have to let Lestrade know that the hermit has died of hypothermia."

 **This was fun to write, and I learned a lot about hypothermia! (Thanks, Google!)**

 **Please, please, if you enjoyed this, follow/favorite/review! I would appreciate it so much!**


	6. Shark Attack - John

**Summary: A beach day goes wrong when there is a freak shark attack.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Also, this story is a bit shorter than the others, but in five days I get out of school for the summer, so I can write so much more then! Stay tuned!**

"It's called a beach day, Sherlock."

"I think that it's called a waste of time. What is one supposed to do? Sit in the gritty sand, watching the vermin elsewise known as children run around and squeal and splash and be frankly moronic?" Sherlock responded sullenly, his arms folded around him.

John had forced Sherlock to go to the beach with him. It wasn't something he typically did himself, but they had just finished a weeklong case, and it couldn't hurt for the detective to have some vitamin D. Sherlock had refused to go until John had mentioned that there was a mugging in the area, so afterwards he promised that they could check it out.

"Look at it this way. You'll have an excuse to wear sunglasses because it's sunny, so since people can't see your eyes, you can deduce _in your head_ everything about everyone and no one will even notice."

"I do that anyway and people are too dull to notice."

"Look, we never go to the beach. It's a day trip. And you don't just have to sit in the sand while children enjoy the ocean. You can swim too, you know."

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible.

After claiming a section of the sand with their beach towels, John went to the bathrooms to put on swim trunks, and Sherlock remained on the sand wearing his button-down shirt, nice pants, and black shoes. He had refused to bring "beachwear" upon John's strong suggestion, but now he slightly regretted it - it was very hot on the sand.

"You're going to boil, you know," John said, amused. He had returned. "Lucky for you, I brought spare swim trunks."

"John, I'm not swimming. The whole reason that we're here is to investigate the mugging, but as far as I know you are needlessly wasting my time by having us sit on a dune to enjoy the annoying sound of a crowd of people."

"Stop complaining. You sound like a two year old," John said. "I just want to enjoy the day, Sherlock. Is that too much? I want to have a fun day at the beach with my friend."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. He snatched the swim trunks for John's hand and strolled to the bathroom. As far as he could recall, he hadn't worn a bathing suit since he was nine years old. Once changed, he glanced in the mirror.

What was he doing? He wasn't going to let John tell him what to do - besides, he looked ridiculously pasty. He considered putting his sharp outfit back on, when he remembered how hot it was. Grumbling, he wrapped himself in beach towel similarly to as he had done with his sheet in Buckingham Palace, and walked back out to the sand.

"Bit more comfortable than your suit?" John called from the water. The waves were crashing down and he was treading water. Sherlock ignored him and sat back down resolutely on the sand. He supposed that the best use of his time was to observe.

The woman next to him was clearly an alcoholic. She was recently divorced - no, widowed - and was raising two dogs and one daughter by herself. Office worker, obviously. She had recently traveled to the United States and was at the beach because she was skipping work.

He moved on to the man to his left. He was bisexual, and worked as a doctor. Obviously. His mother was with him and she was clearly planning to get him home for a birthday party after that the man was unaware of. Most likely a surprise party for him. How boring.

John returned from the water, dripping, and wrapped himself in his towel.

"The water is really very nice," he said. "Besides, it's clearing out a bit. Not nearly as many people. You won't have to share the water with the children here."  
"John, if you must know, I actually enjoy swimming. However, I have no inclination to spend my time getting wet while I could be practicing my observational powers for the case later night."

Sherlock sat, hunched over, as John returned to the water. He texted Lestrade rapidly, asking for any new cases that could take his mind off of the pathetically boring beach. To his excitement, Lestrade responded.

 **There actually has been a murder. Body was found in the Thames. Gunshot through the forehead.**

 **Who's on forensics? SH**

 **Anderson, but it's not his fault that the case hasn't been solved yet. It's baffling us all.**

 **Laughable. I could solve it in two minutes. SH**

 **I doubt it. Just come when you can, alright?**

 **I'll be there tonight, after the case I'm on right now. SH**

He didn't bother to mention that he was at the beach while precious time was being wasted. But now that there was a murder, he needed to leave. He prepared to yell for John to come and pack up their things, when there was a scream.

"Shark!" a woman was screaming, then more screams joined in. Based on the volume and pitch of the screams, there hadn't just been a sighting, but an attack. Sherlock glanced at the water. There was a pool of crimson blood rippling in the waves. Someone had been bitten by a shark. Dull.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, texting Lestrade again. "There's a been a murder. Get out of the water. We're leaving. Hurry up."

John didn't come. Sherlock sighed, and stood impatiently. He rather wished he was in his suit. Why on earth had he obeyed the doctor?

"John!" he called before taking a better look at the attack. In the center of the pool of blood in the water was a familiar head. A head with blonde hair. John.

Sherlock darted into the water, slamming himself through the incoming wave. The screams persisted on the beach.  
"John! John!" he heard himself screaming, and the water was slowing him down, but he dove past all of the waves, and he was reaching the blood-soaked water-

"John!" he gasped, and pulled him. "You need to get out of the water!"

"Right, Sherlock!" John gasped, and now he was half walking, half being dragged by Sherlock. Sherlock only stopped moving through the water at his top speed when they reached the shore, and he dragged John onto the sand, where the doctor laid, pale, the foamy water lapping at them.

"Call an ambulance!" Sherlock bellowed at the woman he had deduced earlier. "No! You're drunk, too slow!" He whipped out his own phone and called Lestrade.

"Lestrade! Send an ambulance, right now!" Sherlock demanded, and shouted his location at the detective inspector.

"John! Can you hear me?" Sherlock asked frantically.

"Sherlock?" John said weakly. "Is it… is it bad?"

It was gruesome. John's entire leg from the knee down was gone. Ripped away.

"John, I need you to stay awake."

He directed his attention to the man he had deduced earlier. "You! You're a doctor, make sure he stays awake!" He grabbed his beach towel and wrapped it around the severed stump of John's knee. It was bleeding profusely, and there was a small chance that John could survive this much blood loss, but he didn't worry about this at the moment, and applied pressure to the wound. John cried out in pain.

"Oh my- Sherlock, it hurts!" he cried. "It hurts!"

"I know, John. Just hang on."

He took his pulse. John's skin was cold and clammy. His heartbeat was rapid and weak.

"Stay with me!" the other man was saying. Sherlock shook John. "You need to stay awake! You're going into shock! Someone get me a blanket!" Immediately one was thrust in front of Sherlock, and he didn't look to see who it was, he just wrapped it around John.

It was then that the ambulances arrived. Sherlock vaguely remembered that there had been a hospital a mere five minutes from the beach, fortunately. The paramedics dashed over and began to tend to John. John. John, whose leg was missing from the knee down.

"Is he alright?" Sherlock demanded an hour later when the nurse came out of the ICU.

"He'll live. He suffered from severe hypovolemic shock, and his blood loss nearly killed him. He's stable now, unconscious."

"Will he walk again?"

"Yes. He's missing half of his leg, so he'll be on a wheelchair for a bit, before progressing to crutches, then he'll have to use a cane for the rest of his life."

"No!" Sherlock said, so loudly that the nurse flinched. "No! He can't use a cane. Train him to walk again. Reattach a new limb to him. Anything. He _can't_ use a cane."

The nurse didn't understand. She didn't understand that John Watson had once used a cane before. Sherlock couldn't bear seeing that again.

"Let me see him," he said finally.

"We're not allowing visitors at the moment."

"Let me see him, or I'll have Gavin Lestrade arrest you," Sherlock threatened. The nurse made a face.

"You can't-"

"Let. Me. See. Him."

And he was allowed inside.

John woke up several hours later.

"John!" he heard from the tall, curly-haired figure in the corner.

"Sher...lock?" he said slowly. "What happened?"

"Well, thanks to your brilliant idea of a beach day, you were bitten by a blue shark. You moron. You realize that you're more likely to get struck by lightning than to get bitten by a shark."

"I didn't try to get attacked!" John said, stung. He paused. "Wait - hang on - Sherlock, I can't feel my leg. I can't feel it," he panicked. "Sherlock, I can't feel my leg!"

"John, you need to calm down, or I'll be forced to leave."

"Sherlock, I can't feel my bloody leg!"  
"John, I'm sorry. Truly," Sherlock said uncomfortably, unsure of how to deliver the news in a way most suited to John's emotions, which he could never understand. "Your leg… was bitten off."

John was silent. "Is there any way of attaching a new leg onto it?" he asked finally.

"Well… no. I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock said, and this time he meant it. "I confess… I was… gravely frightened by your peril."  
John was dead silent. Sherlock was afraid that his flatmate was going to cry for a second, until he said, "Well, at least I didn't get rid of the cane."

"John - do you want anything, or…"

"No, it's fine. There's nothing we can do, apparently."

"But maybe there is… I can phone Mycroft, and ask him to pull some strings… maybe a new leg can be reattached…" He was fumbling for words, and John knew it, but he just gripped his friend's hand.

"Sherlock, it's okay. I'll be alright."

 **A/N: I wasn't really sure how to end that… Wow. I didn't plan on the story going like that. I started it without even thinking about sharks. But I have a fear of them, so I guess it sort of just happened. I kind of feel bad for doing that to poor John.**

 **Anyway, if you have any ideas for injuries/experiments gone wrong/illnesses/etc. that you want me to write, please put it in a review, and I'll try to write it! I would appreciate it so so much!**


	7. Tortured - John

**Summary: John is kidnapped.** _ **WARNING: There will be graphic descriptions and torture.**_

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

John turned on the television only to have it flicked off by Sherlock several moments later.

"I'm thinking," was the detective's reasoning.

"Well, go to your own bedroom and think. I'm watching the television," John said. He pointed the remote at the screen and turned it back on. Sherlock once again stood up from his stool in the kitchen and strided over to turn off the television.

"Sherlock, I have a right to watch a show. It's Sunday night, and I have work tomorrow," John complained.

"I have a right to absolute silence," Sherlock said before slamming his fist onto the table. "How? How was she murdered? She was in a cafeteria, near hundreds of other students, who swore that they didn't see anyone suspicious; the next minute she's been decapitated! The school didn't let anyone in that day, so either someone snuck in or it was someone in the building; it was likely that latter, but then _who did it and why_?"

John didn't answer. "Watch some telly and maybe it'll come to you," he suggested.

"Oh, yes, how about I waste time sitting on my behind staring pointlessly at a screen whilst my brain deteriorates and the case doesn't get solved! What a superb idea, John, now you really understand why I come to you for advice all of the time!" Sherlock scoffed. "Honestly, John, if you weren't my good acquaintance, I would ridicule you for your severely low capacity for logical and intelligent thinking."

"Thank God you don't ridicule me," John said, rolling his eyes. "But alright. I guess I'll just read instead-"

"No," Sherlock said firmly.

"No?"

"Yes, I think I said 'no' quite clearly. You're not reading. You're coming with me."

"Sherlock, it's eight in the evening. What place do you feel the need to go to tonight? I already told you, I have work tomorrow!"

"And I heard you. We're going to the school. We can investigate without Scotland Yard and the school breathing down our necks. Rather, check out all of the teachers' offices and records of the students."

John sighed. "I hope you have a plan for getting into the school?"

"Of course. It's elementary."

John didn't answer. Sherlock glanced over at him, slightly disappointed. "I thought you'd enjoy that, John. I told what you call 'a joke'. Do you get it? It's a case in a school, and I used the term 'elementary'-"

"Of course I understood it, Sherlock, it's a pun!" John said, and he cracked a smile.

* * *

"I can't believe that we broke into a bloody school," John said as they hurried down the dark hallway. The carpeting muffled the sounds of their footsteps as they passed hundreds of lockers.

"We'll start with her chemistry teacher's desk. She was in chemistry before she was stabbed," Sherlock said, and unlocked the door. He paused. "On a second note, how about you check out the principal's office while I investigate in here?"

"Sure," John agreed, and after accepting the key that Sherlock had somehow nicked, continued down the dead silent hallway. It was somewhat eerie with the lack of life. He quietly slipped into the principal's office and began to rummage through the drawers, looking for any indication that the principal was a psychopath and if he had any relations to the girl. He froze suddenly when he felt something stab into the back of his neck, then whirled around. A man was standing behind him with fiery red hair and freckles.

He felt his neck, panicking slightly.

"Syringe, mate," the red-headed man said in a gravelly voice, holding up an empty syringe. "Don't fight it."

"Sherlock!" John began to shout, but his voice was failing him; he felt his hands trembling, and as he lifted them tremors began to shudder through him. This was not good. Not good at all.

"What did you-" he managed to gasp, collapsing to the floor and banging his head particularly hard on the desk. He saw the blurry outline of another man enter the room.

"He's almost out," the redhead said. "Give it another thirty seconds."  
Thirty seconds. That was all he had. He could feel his gun in his pocket, and pulled it out, firing at the redhead's friend that was standing closest to him. He felt distraught to hear no cry of pain, and while they were distracted by the bullets he stumbled out into the hall, only to succumb to the black before he could take any more steps.

* * *

John woke up dizzily. His muscles felt shaky and weak. For several minutes, he could barely hear what was going on around him; everything was muffled. Slowly his senses came to and he was able to see his surroundings.

He was in a room with no windows. It was a bit large and had built-in cupboards on the wall adjacent to him. There was dingy carpeting. John's spirits lifted when he slowly processed Sherlock in the center of the room looking unharmed aside from being handcuffed to a metal support pole that was in the center of the room.

"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. He was sitting on the floor with his arms behind him, secured tightly to the pole. John took several seconds to answer. He was also handcuffed to a support pole for the room, about ten feet away from Sherlock.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you?"

"Yes. Of course I am," Sherlock said with a dignified expression. "We were in the school… and they snuck up on both of us, I imagine. Drugged us both. I've no idea where we are. I could hear train tracks, so that's an indicator, but hardly a solid clue as to our location. They took our cell phones and guns, of course."

"What are we even doing here?" John whispered. "Why did they… kidnap us?"

"Ah. I think that's my fault," Sherlock said apologetically. "I believe that our kidnappers are part of a gang that I interfered with a month ago. I caught their leader, who I'm fairly sure was a father figure to the gang, and got him arrested. I can't imagine they were too pleased with me."

"We weren't," came the gravelly voice of the redhead that had drugged John. The man walked in. He was burly and tall. "You arrested our leader, Mr. Holmes. You stole our best friend from us."

"So your plan is to now hurt me and do justice for your precious leader?" Sherlock said mockingly, his eyebrows raised. "How dull."  
The redhead snarled. "You're incredibly obtuse, Mr. Holmes. This isn't justice, it's revenge."

"Let me guess. You've got all sorts of weapons stocked in those cupboards there, and you and your pals are going to torture me until I scream for mercy and apologize profusely for the arrest of your best friend. I doubt you'd have the courage to kill me or even permanently injure."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Your friend is right. But, Mr. Holmes, I'm surprised. You're far off the mark with your deduction this time."

"Oh?" Sherlock asked. "It doesn't matter. You're still boring me."

"Not for long," the redhead said. "You see, I killed the girl at the school. I knew the case would draw you to the location, so we just had to wait for the perfect moment to ambush you, which was quite easy. Here comes the fun part."

John watched warily as the man opened up a drawer and took out a hammer.

"You arrested my best friend. I wonder what will happen if I _hurt_ yours?"

John felt his heart thud in his chest; both in fear, and in relief that the redhead wasn't planning on hurting Sherlock. Yet. Sherlock, however, had tensed from his position on the pole.

"Leave him out of it," he said finally. "He's done nothing." John noticed that the detective had a bit of a bored tone to his voice and admired the man's ability to detach himself from the situation as much as possible in order to reveal little about their friendship.

"But you have," the redhead said softly. "We'll begin easy."

"Don't even try," John threatened. "I swear, if you take a step near me, I will kick your kneecaps out." He wasn't sure if he was capable of that, but felt it would be best to overestimate.

"I'm not stupid," the redhead snorted, and took another item out of the cupboard. It was a syringe. He knelt down. John began to kick as much as he could with his hands handcuffed behind him, and was satisfied to feel solid contact with his foot and the redhead's ribcage. Unfortunately, the redhead managed to weave his hand down and stab John's leg with the syringe. He saw Sherlock wince out of the corner of his eye.

John gritted his teeth, still kicking with all of his might, waiting for the drug to begin. It was a different one from the last time; rather than his body trembling, it began to slacken. It wasn't numbing but more of a loss of control of his muscles. He tried not to panic as his kicking slowly came to a stop and he was left sitting helplessly against the pole.

"Mr. Holmes? Are you able to see? I want to hear you beg for me to stop," the redhead said. "This is just the beginning, I promise you. Don't worry, I do it all - bruises, blood, broken bones, and just a bit of psychological torture."

He raised the hammer. "You get to pick, Dr. Watson," he said diplomatically. "Fingers or toes?"

John could only watch; he wasn't able to even move his jaw.

"Alright, we'll start with the toes, then." He pulled off John's shoes and positioned his feet on the carpeting. Sherlock had set his jaw and made eye contact with John before blinking rather rapidly.

The redhead poised the hammer and swung it down, slamming into John's toes as though they were nails. All that escaped John was a emission of pain as the hammer was repeatedly swung down. He suspected that it wasn't as hard as it could have been. His toes felt clearly broken but more so fractured than shattered.

"You have ten minutes," the redhead said after finishing, standing up. "Mr. Holmes? Do you want me to stop?" Sherlock ignored him. The man grinned and left the room.

"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked immediately. Fortunately, the effects of the syringe, though fast acting, seemed to fade quickly, because John could move his jaw and hands again.

"Aside from having my toes fractured…" John replied, mouth tight. "I assume that we'll only be tortured more if you show signs of weakness?"  
"Yes. They want me to beg. I think that it will end sooner if they don't get a reaction from me. I am deeply sorry, John," Sherlock said.

"Not your fault," John managed, arranging his toes in a position as comfortable as possible.

* * *

Thus began the torture. Every ten minutes the man would enter the room with the syringe and disable John's muscles, then set to work with a new form of torture. It began with fracturing and bruising; after he had hammered John's fingers and toes, he struck his jaw, bruising but not breaking it. He brought a whip in next, leaving red gashes on his back. John supposed that this was the bleeding part that he had mentioned. It hurt… but he could fight through it. Each time he pretended to be in more pain than he was in order to have the man stop sooner.

"Tooth extraction," the redhead announced next. John felt his stomach flip. His back was sticky with blood and his jaw, fingers, and toes were crying out in excruciating pain, but he hadn't screamed yet, nor had Sherlock protested.

"You're insane," John choked out as the man drugged him again. He pulled out pliers and wedged them into John's jaw.

"Maybe you'll get a visit from the tooth fairy," he drawled, and pulled out his front teeth. John could do nothing but sit and writhe in the pain; his muscles were slack, but his body still convulsed involuntarily.

Sherlock's face was red and he was continually making eye contact with John, as though pleading and reassuring with his eyes. John gladly maintained it, grateful that he wasn't alone and desperately hoping that the detective would think of a way out of this. Two teeth were placed in his trembling hand.

* * *

"I must congratulate you, Dr. Watson," the redhead said, wandering back into the room. "You have broken ribs, fractured fingers and toes, a bruised jaw, two missing teeth, whippings, and now a concussion. Yet you haven't screamed, and nor has Mr. Holmes."

John spat at him.

"Spit all you want. This is going to be my favorite part." He pulled out a syringe that had quadruple the fluid it usually had. "Your muscles won't be moving for a couple of hours this time," he said, and injected it into John's leg. "I suspect you've heard of Chinese water torture, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Well, now you get to see it firsthand. I hope this isn't dull anymore?"

He situated John below a small cone that had a minute opening, and filled it with water. It dripped unceremoniously onto John's forehead.

"Try enduring that for a couple of hours," he said.

And the water dripped continuously onto the same spot on the center of John's forehead.

The first hour was manageable. The redhead left the room only to return whenever the cone of water needed to be refilled, usually every ten minutes. The water droplet would fall every two seconds. John wasn't able to move, and he couldn't shift his head from the spot where it was being dripped on.

Another hour passed. John could feel his muscles regaining strength, and the next time that the redhead left the room, he croaked, "Sherlock?"

"John! What does it feel like?"  
"Like someone slowly pressing a knife into my forehead. It's a bit horrible, really," John said, and winced as another droplet fell.

"John. I think that since the man used a new dosage of the drug on you, he won't be able to know when it will fade off as easily. Pretend that you're still under the effects of the drug as long as possible, and there's a chance that when he bends down to fill the cone you can kick him in the head, thus knocking him out and taking his phone out of his pocket with your feet. If you can manage that, we can call Lestrade and alert him to use the phone's coordinates to find us."

"Sherlock… I don't think that will work…"

"It's our only chance."

Another hour passed. Every time the redhead returned to fill the water, John slacked, attempting to recreate the appearance that the drug administered. The man didn't notice.

Unfortunately, that also meant that he had to stay in the same position, unless he wanted the man to notice he had moved and drug him again. Once the man had left during the third hour, John cried out.

"Sherlock, it's really, really uncomfortable!" he said, panic creeping into his voice. "How much longer do you think he'll do this for? I hate it, I hate it so much!"

It was the fourth hour that the man took the water away. John had been fighting back tears and was losing his capability of pretending to be under the influence of the drug, but the man must not have noticed. As he bent down to take the cone of water away, John flung his knee upward and nailed the man in the forehead.

"Ah!" the man shouted, stumbling back. He regained his composure. "You thought that would do anything?"

John didn't respond; he was heaving in pain from having moved his ribs.

The man snatched a knife from the cupboard, breathing heavily. He approached John and without further ado plunged the blade into his shoulder, twisting it and shoving it in its wound.

For the first time, both John and Sherlock screamed.

It was the worst he had ever felt in his life. Ice and fire stabbed at his insides and there was screaming in his ears, which he realized was his own and stopped, but couldn't stop the sweat pouring down his face and the nausea of it all with the sticky blood on his back and cracked fingers and toes, and his entire body was writhing with pain now.

"Stop it!" John could hear Sherlock yelling. "He's done nothing! Stop!"

Suddenly he realized that he was gripping his chest with his hands. His hands. His hands were free.

"I think that I've done my revenge now," the redhead said, unlocking Sherlock's handcuffs as well. John fell limply onto the floor, the knife still lodged in his shoulder. He could feel his breath rapid, and the subconscious doctor inside of him told him to stay awake.

"I guess you're free to go. Don't bother searching for me here. We'll be many miles away before you can get your friend to the hospital," the redhead said, and with that, he left the room.

"John!" Sherlock cried out, scrambling over to him. "Let's go, we have to get to a hospital!"

John obeyed and felt Sherlock help him stand, supporting all of his weight. Tears were streaming down his face but he didn't care; his toes were screaming in protest and in agony, but he let the detective guide him out of the room. They entered onto a somewhat busy street where the last thing John heard was Sherlock bellowing at a passerby for them to call an ambulance before he blacked out.

He woke up in a hospital. Sherlock was sitting in a chair next to the bed, looking rather bored, but also relieved at John's waking up.

"Where's the redhead?" John asked groggily.

"Couldn't find him, as he promised. We left and got to the hospital about thirty minutes later. Your… pulse stopped for twenty seconds. Severe blood loss."  
"Did all of those things happen… the toes, the fingers, the whip, the concussion, the jaw, the Chinese water torture, the stabbing, all of that? Or did I dream some of it?"

"It all happened," Sherlock said flatly. "The redhead was eager to ensure that I experienced something similar to what he experienced."

"Are you alright?" John asked, slightly guilty at not having asked yet.

"Me? Fine. The redhead didn't touch me."

Memories began to flood back, and suddenly the room felt slightly blurry and a terrible lightheadedness was creeping over John. He wasn't sure what was happening and it only made him begin to panic even more before Sherlock's baritone voice cut through.

"Stop, John. Control your emotions."

"Excuse me," said another voice. "Mr. Holmes, you can't say things like that, or I'll force you to leave. John's experiencing extreme emotional trauma."

"Emotions are voluntary," John heard Sherlock mutter before the room stopped tilting.

* * *

Another four days passed before John was allowed to return to Baker Street with Sherlock. The first night back was slightly rougher than he had anticipated; irrationally, he was afraid of his dark room, and was thorough in making sure that every room he entered was well lit.

Even the sound of the faucet set him off - it was dripping in a similar rhythm to how the droplets had been in the Chinese water torture, and he suppressed a gasp before hurrying over to turn the knob of the tap off.

Sherlock, although he was still his usual cold self, had melted slightly. He hadn't participated in any dangerous experiments (a nice change from the normal) and had even made an effort to play smooth, soothing songs on his violin rather than tonelessly scratching with the bow.

"Can't believe I have to go back to work," John grumbled the Monday of the next week. "You'd think one would be exempt from work after being tortured by a bloody psychopath."

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said, tuning his violin. "Go away. I need to think."

"Fine," John replied, and turned out of the flat while securing his coat without twinging his stab wound. It was a bit unfortunate to see the detective returning to his usual manner, but at the same time, there was immense relief knowing the incident was completely over.

 **Thanks so much for reading! That was a bit difficult to write because obviously I don't have firsthand experience, but I really hope you enjoyed it :) If there's a particular injury, illness, or accident that you'd like me to write about Sherlock or John (or both!) please tell me in a review, and I'll try to write it! Again, don't forget to favorite/follow!**


	8. Venom - John

**Summary: John is bitten by a snake.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing. **

**Thanks so much to Guest review from Starcross123, who suggested this to me! If anyone else has ideas, feel welcome to put it in a review for me, and I'll try to write it!**

* * *

Sherlock plucked a string on his violin. His face was deep in thought.

"The facts are simple, yet I can't think of why the people were murdered!" he said in frustration. "Seven people dead from a snake bite, but two were tourists, and the others were from completely different areas of London!"

John looked up from his newspaper. "Maybe the killer isn't coming to them," he suggested. "I dunno, it seems more likely that the people ran into the problem themselves rather than a killer actively setting a snake on people."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Aha! You see, John, this is why I keep you; you are a conductor to my intellect!"

"Thanks?"

"Obviously! A snake bite, people from all over - it must be a zoo! It fits! All of the victims were part of a family that consisted of children, it makes sense!"  
"Then why didn't the witnesses report that they had been to the zoo when their family member died of a snake bite?"

Sherlock ran his hands through his curly hair. "Then they must have intentionally not reported being at the zoo. The killer must have threatened the family not to tell, because they wouldn't want to lose their clever method of murder!"

John opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Sherlock, you realize that not everything is as intricate as you want it to be?"

Sherlock threw him a look that clearly said, _Stop afflicting the world with your stupidity_ , but instead he said, "What's your solution, then?"

John didn't argue. "Alright, so these people went to a zoo, got bit, then died two hours later. I assume you want to go to the zoo now to check it out?"  
"Obviously. And I already know which zoo it was."

John didn't ask how the detective knew but slipped on his shoes and put his gun in his coat pocket. They hurried down the stairs, Mrs. Hudson saying as they left, "Where are you two off to, this time?" and John responded hastily before being pulled by Sherlock into a cab.

"Should we be taking any precautions?" John asked as they rode down the street. There were many people out on the sidewalks; it was a pleasant, sunny day of 24° Celsius. "I mean, if we're dealing with a blackmailing serial killer that has a venomous snake or more at his disposal…"

"Just don't be moronic," Sherlock said blatantly, researching quickly on his phone about snake venom. "According to the autopsies, the venom came from a coral snake. The symptoms of a coral snake bite arrive approximately an hour. Interestingly, the coral snake rarely ever kills; the last reported death was in the 1960s. The snake isn't native to this area; in fact, none live within a very large radius of England, so I suspect that the snake has been specially tamed and trained by whoever brought it here to conditions so different from its habitat."

"Never heard of a coral snake," John said absently, now typing it into his own phone. Several images popped up; it was a thin snake with bright yellow, black, and red stripes.

"Of course you haven't," Sherlock said automatically. "However, you did mention precautions, and you're a doctor - what should we do if one of us happens to get bitten?"

John tried to think back; he rarely dealt with snake bites. "Well… I think first it's wise to stay still, or else the venom can travel quicker through the body. Removing constricting clothing or jewelry on or near the bite is helpful too."

"Is that all?"

"Sorry. I don't know much about snake bites."

"Then what _exactly_ is your purpose of being a doctor?" Sherlock snapped.

"Shouldn't you know? You're supposed to be a genius," John said.

"I already gave my input. 'Don't be moronic'. I think that's the best advice of all."

It was then that they arrived at the zoo. John thanked the cabbie and paid him, then followed Sherlock into the zoo. It was packed with small children and overwhelmed-looking parents. They moved their way to a crowd and stopped abruptly at the end of a long line.

"Who would come here for fun?" Sherlock said, genuinely confused. "John, we don't have to wait for this entire line, do we?"

"Yes, we do. Not even Scotland Yard knows the murders were here, we can't just say that we have special privilege because we're investigating serial murders - everyone would freak."

Sherlock sighed dramatically as they waited, edging ever so slowly closer to the ticket booth. It took thirty minutes.

"Two.. adults?" the ticket vendor said, peering at them dully through the glass.

"Do you see any children?" Sherlock asked rudely. "Just give us the tickets and stop using your mouth to proclaim your idiocy."

"Sherlock!" John said, shocked; his friend was always rude, but this was just unnecessary. He chalked the blunt statement up to the fact that Sherlock was most likely irritated by the line, but still, there was no reason to be that impolite to the ticket vendor, who was now raising his eyebrows in an aggressive way to the detective.

"Watch your mouth, man," he said. "I can refuse entrance, you know."

"No."

"Sorry?"

"No, you can't refuse us entrance," Sherlock said simply. "Or rather, you could, but you're not going to those measures. Clearly you're lying about you denying us entrance, because of the numerous signs including the strange eye contact, the rubbing of your neck, and the fact that your hand is near the phone. I'd guess that you have to check with your boss to deny us entrance. However, if you were actually considering doing that, then you wouldn't be hesitating so much. You don't have the nerve to take the time to sort things out with your boss because of the immense line that is only getting longer as I speak. So, give us the tickets."  
"Bloody psycho," the ticket vendor muttered, slipping the tickets under the glass. Sherlock snatched them and marched into the zoo only to stop suddenly.

"I detest crowds," he said to John. "The noise, the uncomfortable contact with other people - it's nauseating."  
"Really? I didn't know people bothered you," John said distractedly, looking at the map. "Let's see… it looks like the snake habitat is… this way." He pointed to the left and they continued down the path.

* * *

The snake house was warm and humid. Sherlock wasted no time in finding the zookeeper that was on duty.

"Where is the owner of the snakehouse?" he asked. "What's his name?"

The zookeeper, who was a young guy with black hair, looked startled. "Um… he's not here, he's at home. Do you want me to send a message on to him?"

"Yes, thank you. Tell him that we'd like to know more about his coral snake; it's simply fascinating. He'll know what that means, I expect. Tell him to come here tomorrow at opening time. My friend John and I will be here."  
"Yeah, alright, man," the zookeeper said, looking disconcerted. "You're interested by the coral snake and you want to meet tomorrow at opening?"

"Yes, I think I just said that," Sherlock said, before sweeping off to the habitats. "We might as well check the snake out now, John, and though we can't exactly dispose of it right now because we have no means of doing it and I doubt that it would go unseen, we can stake out its weaknesses."

The zookeeper vanished into an office; John suspected he was relaying the message. He and Sherlock leaned over the coral snake exhibit. The snake was curled up inside and looked exactly like the ones on the Internet.

"Hang on," John said, squinting at the label for the habitat. "Not only is this snake labeled as one that people can touch - like a petting zoo - but it's listed as a common non-venomous snake! But isn't this the coral snake?"

"It's the coral snake," Sherlock confirmed quietly. "The owner must have managed to have is mislabeled as a non-venomous one that people can touch so that he could easily use it to kill people. The victims must have been stroking it when the owner set off a signal of some sorts to have it attack."

They watched the snake for another few moments.

"Shouldn't we warn someone?" John asked. "Innocent people will be touching this snake! It could kill again! Why don't we call Scotland Yard now?"  
Sherlock didn't answer.

"Oh, come on! You're not calling because you want to solve it all yourself?" John asked, rolling his eyes. "You're putting people in danger so that you can have _fun_?"

"Your word choices have negative connotations, John, but I suppose you're correct," Sherlock admitted. It was then that all of the sudden, the lights in the snake house blinked out for a moment before turning back on. Pandemonium erupted as soon as the light returned - the coral snake, which had been sleeping moments before, had lunged upward, and with a flash was back in its habitat.

"What _was_ that?" John asked, startled at how the snake had leapt out at him before falling back into its habitat. Sherlock didn't respond; his eyes were wide.  
"I miscalculated," he said fearfully. "The owner wasn't the one that kept the coral snake and trained it… It must have been the zookeeper! I'm so stupid! He found out that we were investigating the murders! John, look at your hand!"

John held his hand up into the light and choked back a gasp. "There's a bite mark! I didn't even feel it!" he said, stunned.

"He called the snake on us - that must have been why the lights flickered, it was the trained signal that the zookeeper taught his snake - attack when the lights flicker!"

"Now what?" John asked, panicking slightly. "What do we do?"  
"Do you have your phone?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I left it with our coats at the entrance, but we can borrow someone else's-"

Sherlock swore, which startled John; the detective scarcely used profanity. John held his puncture mark up again. "Ow… I can kind of feel it now," he confessed. He and the detective stared at one another blankly before Sherlock sprung into action. He sprinted to the office of the zookeeper and kicked the door open. John followed him in.

Sherlock said nothing but pinned the zookeeper against the wall.

"I have to leave now… but I can promise you that I'll be back with handcuffs," Sherlock growled.

"Sherlock, why don't we just borrow someone else's phone?" John insisted.

"Think, John! It took us over an hour to walk over to the snake house, and we were walking with the crowd! It's going to take us thirty minutes to run to the entrance on the other side of the zoo against the crowd, and the hospital is across the street, let's go! It's fastest to just run!" He took John's arm and pulled him.

Even with Sherlock bellowing at people to move out of their way, it was slow moving; they kept barrelling into people who didn't move in time, which was slowing them down drastically. Even worse, the puncture mark was beginning to swell. He persisted despite the sweat that was beginning to bead on his forehead. A dull throb began to pulse in the back of his head and quickly heightened, developing into a sharp headache.

"John, move!" Sherlock was saying. "Move!" John hadn't realized he was slowing down.

"My head really hurts," he said, and continued to run with the detective.

They were about ten minutes from the exit when John began to really feel the effects of the venom. He slowed considerably, gasping.

"Nauseous," he gasped, before vomiting onto the sidewalk. This made people leap out of the way, and John fell to his knees, clutching his abdomen.

"Just… not feeling well," he choked out.

"John, the more you delay, the longer it will be until we can run into the hospital. Now let's _go_!"

John tried to swallow but his throat wouldn't work, and the bile that was collecting in his mouth he retched out.

"I can't swallow," he said, feeling his eyelids drooping against his will.

"No, John!" Sherlock yelled. "Get up! Are you a soldier or not?"

They made it out of the exit, John more stumbling than running, and continued through the parking lot.

"John, the hospital is right across from us. Right there. Do not collapse now," Sherlock commanded, but then John collapsed into a convulsion. His vision had blurred completely and his bite wound felt as though it was on fire. He could feel the hard pavement beneath him one second, then the next second a bed.

* * *

How did that happen? He was sure that he was still in the parking lot, but somehow he wasn't. He cracked open his eyes to see Sherlock sitting across from him in a chair. To his surprise, the detective's eyes were red-rimmed.

"Were you crying?" John said in astonishment.

"No, not crying." John gave him a look. "I'm serious," Sherlock added. "I almost did… it was strange. My eyes were astoundingly puffy before I realized what was happening and ensured that no tears fell. But, I regret to inform you, John, that you almost died because of me."  
"I think I made it to the hospital safely because of you."

"Well, yes, I did have to carry you when you got a bit… delirious. But it's my fault, for several reasons."

"Sherlock, I don't blame you, whatever the reasons are," John said, his voice tight and dry.

"First, I should have realized that the zookeeper was the killer. I didn't _see_ it somehow - and if I had, you wouldn't have gotten hurt. Second, I delayed in leaving the snake house in order to threaten the zookeeper. I should have immediately had us go to the hospital. Third - you were right. An ambulance would have been faster despite the hospital being directly across the road, because in the time it took for me to get you across, you almost died," Sherlock said, his voice constrained with remorse. "I'm very sorry, John. I almost cost you your life."

"No, you didn't. If you hadn't been bellowing at people to move, it would have taken a lot longer for us to get out of there, so I would have died if not for you."

"Hmph," was all Sherlock said. John leaned back in his pillows, examining the bite. He'd had worse injuries, but it was slightly frightening to almost die from an animal that had appeared to be sleeping.

"How long was I out for?" John asked after a moment.

"Not too long. An hour, I think. They injected you with an antibiotic to stop the venom. Despite it being an almost fatal bite, the doctor projected that you could be out of here by tonight."  
"Thank goodness," John said.

"Why 'thank goodness'?"

"Well, the tickets cost us forty quid. I was sort of hoping to see the rest of the zoo, and the tickets will be invalid tomorrow."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I had intended on never returning to that horribly crowded place, but if it makes you happy, I will concede. However, this is the first and only time that we will do this, and I am only agreeing because you almost died."

"Deal," John said, and smiled.

 **I actually had so much fun writing them at the zoo. Please, if you have any suggestions for improvements or an injury/illness/accident that you want me to write, please let me know in a review! Thank you for reading!**


	9. Influenza - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock gets sick.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **This idea was presented to me from a Guest review. Thank you so much for suggesting it! Anyone else who has ideas, please feel free to leave a review with your suggestion!**

"Stop pitying me!" Sherlock commanded, his voice slightly cracked and nasal. "It's just a cold, John. I can deal with it."

"Yes, but you never get sick. Just take some medicine, it'll make you feel better-"  
"I don't need pity. I'll heal myself," Sherlock said. "It's just transport. I'm not going to let a cold deter me from my typical activities."

"Fine. Just - here - take these. You'll probably want them."

Sherlock took the box of tissues reluctantly. "I'm not actually sick, John. I guarantee that it is simply a withdrawal from a severe lack of cases. My mind is haywire, because the only stimulation it is receiving is your dull chatter."  
John scowled. "First, you just said yourself that it's a cold. Second, apologize."

"My most sincere of apologies, John," Sherlock snapped, and returned to his room with his head high before stopping abruptly and turning around. "Actually, I need to study." He sat down resolutely in front of his microscope and disappeared into his mind palace.

John frowned. His flatmate had a terrible temper under a cold. Most likely he was ashamed of his "transport" falling victim to a common human ailment. Nevertheless he made tea for himself and Sherlock and set the cup down next to the detective, then went to bed himself.

* * *

The next morning he woke up to a silent flat, which was a relief. Often he would open his eyes to the tune of the violin; although he enjoyed the sounds that Sherlock was adept at producing with the instrument, they could be tiresome to live with and wake up with.

To his surprise, Sherlock was asleep on his microscope. At first John had thought he was still studying the microscope until he realized that the detective was asleep with his face pressed against it. He supposed that it would be amusing to leave him there - and Sherlock deserved it, too, he was so rude - but thought better of it and gently stirred him.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "What time is it?" he beseeched, wide-eyed.

"Um, eight. Why? Is there a client coming?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John, if there was a client coming I wouldn't have a cold. Why didn't you wake me up sooner?"

"What do you mean? I just woke up myself," John said, confused. "Besides, I'm not your alarm clock."  
"But I never sleep in this late! I've wasted the entire day!" He ran his slender fingers through his curly hair and leapt up. "Trivial transport."

"Stop referring to your body as 'transport'. You realize, that without your 'transport', you wouldn't be solving nearly as many cases," John said.

"I'm showering," Sherlock said coldly, ignoring John's statement, and marched into the bathroom. He returned only fifteen minutes later, his hair curlier than before after having been shampooed and combed, and now wearing his suit.

"Why do you always have to wear a bloody suit?" John asked. "You don't have any cases, you have a cold - would it hurt you to stay in pajamas past eight-thirty?"

Sherlock glared at him. There was a pregnant pause.

"I need a case, John!" The last part of his bellow turned into a cough. He hastily cleared his throat. "I'm texting Lestrade." He pulled out his phone and rapidly fired off a text. Fortunately, Lestrade responded quickly.

 **Do you have any cases? SH**

 **None that you'd be interested in. No murders.**

 **I didn't ask for murders. I asked for cases. SH**

 **Well, there has been a robbery. A young woman was attacked with a bat, she says, and the perpetrator stole her purse. But I didn't think that would interest you. There's no mystery to it.**

 **Have you located the perpetrator? SH**

 **Well, not yet, but Anderson's almost found him, he thinks.**

 **Then there's still mystery to it. Where was the woman attacked? SH**

"John! We have a case!" Sherlock rasped excitedly. "Let's go! Get your coat!"

"A murder?" John asked, in the middle of brushing his teeth.

"Unfortunately, no. A robbery. But the perpetrator hasn't been found, so we're going to find him."

* * *

"Shouldn't we talk to the victim? Wouldn't we find the perpetrator easier that way?" John asked.

"No. It would take to long to talk to her," Sherlock said stubbornly, and sneezed. He ignored John's outstretched hand that was holding a tissue. The sneeze had surprised him; he rarely sneezed. He surveyed the area, the blood on the ground, the footprints, and the dust on the ground. John spent several minutes watching Sherlock and waiting for the announcement of where the perpetrator went.

"John, I can't find anything," Sherlock said finally, irritation in his voice. "There's not enough evidence to make a reasonable deduction. We'll have to speak with the victim."

"Are you sure?" John asked. "What about that? On the ground?" He pointed to the receipt that was lying on the ground. It was for an overdue book. "Not many people come through this alley, and the receipt is dated for today… wouldn't it be likely that it's from the perpetrator? The victim's from a different part of the city, so it wouldn't be from her because she wouldn't go to the library in this area."

Sherlock paled. "How did I miss that?" he asked, but it was rhetorical. "John? Was that there the whole time?"

"I think so."  
"Well. I suppose that the cold made my eyesight worse. As for your supposition, it seems logical enough."

He began to make his way out of the alley, swaying slightly before sneezing.

"Sherlock, why don't I go? You go back to the flat and get some rest. Clearly you're tired, because you never miss evidence that I see. I honestly don't think that's ever happened."

"Stop flapping your useless jaw. It's dull enough when you attempt _thinking_ ," Sherlock said with contempt in his voice.

"Sherlock, you and I both are aware that you're insulting me only because you're irritated by your cold. It's normal. It's human. Although, I wouldn't expect you to understand that," John replied angrily.

Sherlock gave him a murderous look, but snapped to attention when a car pulled up and Anderson stepped out.

"So it's not enough that you're sticking your nose in all of the murders, Sherlock?" Anderson asked in a bitter voice. "You've got to take over the small cases, too? I'm capable of solving this myself, you know."

"This time, it's not because he thinks Scotland Yard can't solve it," John said quickly, answering for Sherlock. "He's just incredibly bored. He's blaming his cold on a lack of cases, so Lestrade offered this one."

Anderson snorted. "A cold, right. Since when have you gotten sick?"

"I regret to inform you, Anderson, that as much as I loathe it, my transport will succumb to human tendencies every so often," Sherlock said, his voice gritty.

"Interesting. Well then, since you're sick, I suggest you go home," Anderson said pointedly. "Crime scenes aren't for the weak."

"I - am - _not_ \- weak," Sherlock snarled, taking a step towards Anderson. "Go spread your idiocy somewhere else." After saying that he swayed violently again.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "You alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, recomposing himself. He whirled around and with a resonating clang turned straight into the lamppost behind him. He stumbled backwards, a look of surprise on his face, his hands leaping up to his nose.

"There's a lamppost there," John said, attempting to contain his smile. Anderson snickered. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

Sherlock didn't answer; there was a flash of red on his nose and more blood began to gush out. He stumbled back to the wall of the building and sank into a sitting position against it.

"Oh - you're bleeding. Here, I've got a tissue," John said, reaching into his pocket. Sherlock had his hands pressed against his temples, his eyes screwed up in pain.

"Headache," he muttered, before vomiting onto the sidewalk.

"You're a mess," Anderson observed.

"So it's not a cold, it's the flu," John said, irritated, "not to mention you just busted your nose on a pole. Come on, Sherlock. You're going home. Anderson, we're fairly sure that the perpetrator went to the library before or after the incident, here's a receipt. It might help." He handed the library receipt to Anderson.

"Don't give _him_ the evidence!" Sherlock protested before retching again. He wiped his nose, getting blood all over his sleeve.

"It's _my_ crime scene!" Anderson countered, outraged.

"Alright, kids, stop arguing. I'm taking Sherlock home," John said, shaking his head. " _Honestly._ "

The acrid scent of vomit permeated the alley as Sherlock pressed his fingers against his temples again. "I've got a headache," the detective admitted. "But I can still work." He struggled to his feet, his hand on the wall for support. "Let's… go. The game is -" he choked again, retching off to his left - "on."

"No, it's not." John hailed a cab and forced Sherlock into it, who was wiping vomit off of his chin.

"You think you can refrain from vomiting in the cab?" John asked warily. Sherlock nodded, conceding finally. "I… have a headache," he repeated, looking dizzy.

"Right, well, you're sick. If you just rest, you'll be better quicker. And maybe there will be a murder once you've rested," John said. Sherlock looked hopeful at the thought as they returned to Baker Street, and this time, he accepted another tissue for the blood leaking out of his nose.

 **Thanks so much for reading! Sorry this one was short… I wrote it in class so I didn't have much time :). As always, I'd love it if you left a review with improvements or ideas for my writing! Don't forget to favorite/follow!**


	10. Fallen - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock gets hurt after an accident on a roof.**

 **Warnings: Mentions of the Reichenbach Fall, a quick mention of suicide, and some graphic descriptions.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **A guest review recommended that I have Sherlock get hurt instead of John. Thanks so much for your input!**

* * *

"Where is your hideout? Where are the others?" Sherlock demanded. "Tell me!"

John and Sherlock had managed to capture one of the criminals in an alleyway that had been participating in a series of assaults. There were approximately ten in the group, Sherlock figured, so they still had around nine more criminals to find. Sherlock was positive that they had a hideout, and was determined to find where it was.

"Why would I tell you?" the criminal mumbled as Sherlock pinned him against the wall even harder.

"Because I'm going to find the hideout anyway, and you telling me will only make your life less painful," Sherlock said, and twisted the criminal's arm back. "I already know several things about it, anyway."  
"Oh?" the criminal said, grunting with pain.

"Yes. I know that it's not an indoor location because of the remarkable tan that you and the others have despite it being early spring. I also know that it is not in an alley location because of the tan; it's somewhere in the open. You have a pungent smell of bread, so I'm guessing that it's a bakery, and judging by the locations of the assaults, I can confidently estimate exactly which bakery it is. I have no doubt that I will find your hideout within the evening. However, it would be convenient if you told me the location."

"Screw off," the criminal said. Sherlock released him and phoned Lestrade.

"Hello, Geoffrey. Yes, we caught one. He's rather insolent, but provided many good deductions for me. I'll leave him tied to the dumpster for you."  
He proceeded to tell Lestrade the location of the bakery that him and John would be investigating, then they hailed a cab and left the alley with the criminal protesting against the dumpster.

"What if someone hears him and unties him?" John asked warily.

"No one is down there, and Lestrade will be there in five minutes anyway," Sherlock said confidently.

They arrived at the bakery. John followed Sherlock inside where they ordered tea and doughnuts, then sat at a small booth. Sherlock surveyed the view outside through the window with interest, his fingers forming a steeple under his chin.

"What are you thinking?" John asked, who now could easily recognize Sherlock's "thinking" face.

"Their hideout has got to be near here - he smelled strongly of coffee and doughnuts, and not just his hair, but his clothes, too; that indicates that he hasn't just been around a coffee shop recently. But _where_?"

"Maybe we'll have to go outside and search," John suggested, so they took their tea, paid, and left the small bakery.

"It's got to be in this radius," Sherlock muttered, surveying the area. "Not down any of these alleys - too dark - and it's got to be somewhere private… oh!" He paused for a few seconds before running toward the side of the bakery, his coat flapping dramatically behind him.

"Sherlock!" John called, and followed.

"The roof, John," Sherlock said excitedly. "See the stairs on the side? Their hideout must be on the roof of the bakery! At night, they swing the stairs down with this particularly well-worn rope-" he indicated to the rope connected to the swing-down stairs "-and no one thinks to look up!"

"So will we wait until night?"

"No. We'll head up now and wait for them," Sherlock said. "Let's go!" He pulled the stairs down, which were narrow and rickety, then climbed up. John followed. The bakery was three stories high (the bakery on the ground floor with two floors of flats above). Once up, it felt much higher than it looked. The view of London was limited, but still better than from the ground.

Sherlock was right. There were clearly indications of people living on the roof, unbeknownst to anyone else. Blankets, food wrappers, and waste littered the roof. Sherlock swept around, clearly making deductions and observing the remains that the criminals left.

John had to suddenly swallow a lump in his throat - seeing Sherlock near the edge was only too much of a reminded of the last time he had seen Sherlock standing on the edge of a roof. The memory was haunting and he shoved it out of his mind. His friend wouldn't commit - _pretend_ to commit - suicide again.

"I suppose we should make ourselves comfortable until the criminals return?" John said. He paused. "Hang on - Sherlock, if there are nine criminals, and only two of us, then how are we going to do this bloody thing?"

"Relax, John. I told Lestrade our location, and I plan on texting him urgently as soon as the criminals arrive. More people will arrive within ten minutes of the criminals arriving. And you brought your gun, correct?"

"Well, yeah, but…" John was slightly worried about those ten minutes that it would be two on nine and hoped that Sherlock could talk their way through it.

They settled on the side of the chimney facing the stairs that led up to the roof. Very slowly, the sky darkened; fortunately, it was already evening when they climbed the stairs.

"Don't you ever get afraid?" John asked finally to Sherlock, who was sitting poised and looked eager for the criminals to arrive.

"Afraid of what?" Sherlock asked after a beat, sounding genuinely perplexed.

"Afraid of the fact that nine criminals will be arriving very shortly and they might be angry because we just captured one of their gang."

"They're stupid. I'm not," Sherlock said simply. "It's beyond easy to trick them."  
"But what if they're stronger and take us in a headlock-"  
"John, stop worrying. Of course, that situation is a possibility, but in that case we strategize our way out of it and wait for Lestrade and the others to come."

John felt slightly reassured, but then rethought his increased confidence; should he be taking assurance from a self-proclaimed sociopath?

"They're coming," Sherlock said sharply, and then John recognized the creak of the stairs as it sounded as though several burly men were climbing it as quietly as possible.

"It doesn't sound like nine," Sherlock said quickly. "More like five." As he spoke, he fired off a text to Lestrade.  
"Well, that's a relief," John said sarcastically, his heart thumping heavily now. "Just five men." He pulled out his gun and kept it at his side discreetly. "I'm sure they'll take well to two men sitting in their hideout."

Sherlock sprang to his feet and tucked his hands behind his back.

"Hello," he said pleasantly. "Nice hideout you've got here."  
"What do you think you're doing?" growled the largest. "This is our place. We've already taken it."  
"Yes, well, you've also assaulted ten people. I recommend that you make this easier for all of us and follow my directions. Your friend learned that the hard way. Besides, the cops are on their way already."

John groaned internally; it was as though the detective was purposely provoking the men.

The men murmured amongst themselves before coming to a quiet agreement. Sherlock watched them unblinkingly, discreetly checking his watch; it was obvious that even he was beginning to hope Lestrade and the others would arrive soon.

"You three get Scrawny, and you and I get Shorty," the leader decided, gesticulating.

"Wait, what?" John said, backpedaling slightly. "Look, let's be civil about this-"

"Let's get Shorty," the leader reiterated, and he charged like an angry bull at John.

"Hang on! I've got a gun!" John shouted, and waved it about; fortunately, the gun made the leader and the other man stop short. Unfortunately, the other three descended onto Sherlock, who looked very surprised.

"I swear, get off him, or I _will_ shoot!" John yelled. They were dangerously close to the edge of the roof when suddenly the men froze, the largest holding Sherlock by his scarf over the edge of the roof. The detective was clawing at the man, attempting to free himself.

"You shoot, and I drop him," the large man threatened. There was a pregnant pause as they all looked at one another, when -

"Nobody move, and put your hands up!" It was Lestrade.

Faster than John could've imagined, the large man flung Sherlock over the edge.

There was a beat.

They were three stories above pavement.

John was frozen into the ground of the roof before he had leapt over to the stairs, climbing down faster than he had imagined; a tearing in his throat that he realized was a yell.

It was horribly reminiscent of that day six months ago. It was again. Sherlock had fallen off of a roof. John rounded the corner, saw the crumpled body on the pavement, the blood - it was happening again, but this time it was real -

But there was a slight difference. The body was moving. It wasn't as pale as it had been last time.

Sherlock was _alive_ this time. He was alive. He was alive.

John could feel boiling hot tears on his cheeks, but he didn't care.

"Sherlock!" he cried, holding Sherlock's head in his hands. "I thought… I thought… I thought it happened again, I thought you died again!"

"Well, I didn't," Sherlock muttered. "But my ribs don't feel particularly wonderful right now, can you call the ambulance?"

"Right!" John said, and dialed an ambulance. "What else hurts?" He was recovering from his emotional breakdown slightly, but couldn't stop his hands shaking as the image of Sherlock going over the edge replayed through his mind.

"Ribs," Sherlock repeated. "I don't think I hit my head… but I think my legs are broken."  
John swore. The ambulance arrived fifteen minutes later and he rode with them, staying by Sherlock's side, who was struggling to stay awake.

* * *

Sherlock became alert the next day, after his bones had been set and put in casts. Fortunately, there had been no internal bleeding. The detective laid in bed while John read his book silently next to him. The room had been dead silent for more than an hour when Sherlock spoke and jumped John.

"What was it like?" he asked quietly. "The first time that… you saw me on the pavement?"

John let out a breath. "Honestly? It was the worst moment of my life. I saw you jump… and I saw your lifeless form on the sidewalk. There was really no other way to describe it, Sherlock. I saw my best friend bloody and pale on the ground."

"I'm sorry, John. I did not wish for you to be in that much pain. If I could have avoided the incident last night, I would have, because that couldn't have been pleasant, seeing me on the ground again."

"It wasn't," John agreed. "You can't imagine how I felt when I saw that you were alive."

Sherlock remained silent in contemplation.

* * *

The next day was much different from the previous. Sherlock wasn't nearly as relaxed.

"I want to leave!" he said angrily to the nurse, who was meek and afraid to tell Sherlock fiercely that he needed to stay in the hospital.

"Sir, your legs and ribs were severely broken, you need to rest," the nurse protested weakly.

"She's right," John said firmly. "You have to stay in bed."

"John, stop agreeing with her! I want to go back to Baker Street and continue my experiment on how water consumption affects urine excretion!"

"No, you're not going to - wait, why would you even do an experiment on that?" John asked incredulously.

"Science!"

"Alright, whatever. Just - from now on - no more cases or experiments or _anything_ that has to do with a roof. Promise?"

"Promise," Sherlock said quickly. "Can we go home now?"

"No," John said, but he grinned at his friend.

 **Thank you so much for reading! Please please please leave a review and favorite/follow, it would make me so happy! :) Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/experiment gone wrong, and I'll try to write your suggestion!**


	11. Appendicitis - John

**Summary: John gets appendicitis and tries to hide it from Sherlock.**

 **Warning** **: There are mentions to suicide and depression (no descriptions nor graphic details about it, just mentioned in conversation and used for the plotline) There are also mentions of drug dealing (again, only in conversation).**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 for the awesome suggestion!**

* * *

"Why is it," Sherlock griped, "that whenever my _brother_ assigns me a case it automatically becomes dull?" He swept the case file off of the table. He and John were eating at a restaurant after answering Mycroft's request for help in the case. "I don't care about an informant! So what if government secrets are exposed to the entire world? I want murder!" Sherlock complained loudly. Several people near them gave disturbed expressions.

"You know, the informant used methods of torture to get information from government officials," John said, taking a sip of his water. "I'd have thought you'd enjoy it."

"But then I'm helping my brother!"  
"So?"

"So! So, informants are boring!" Sherlock said. "John, if I had to pick my favorite case I've ever solved, it was the string of serial murders with a new method of killing every time to disguise the killer's usual technique. That was _interesting_! Remember the teen who was murdered by forced starvation? Simply captivating!"

Unfortunately, the waitress, who was preparing to put their food on their table, had heard. The plates slid clumsily onto the table as she left hurriedly with a small squeak of horror.

John gave Sherlock a reprimanding look. "Can you save the murder talk for when we're back at Baker Street?"  
"What do people talk about if they're not talking about murder?" Sherlock asked. "It must be incredibly dull."

"Well, most people talk about their day," John said. He took a bite of his salad. "Such as, what did you eat today?"  
"What did I _eat_ today?"  
"Yes. You must've had a big lunch since you're not eating any dinner," John said pointedly, nodding to Sherlock's empty spot in front of him - he hadn't ordered any food.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You know perfectly well that I don't enjoy slowing my brain with unnecessary sustenance. Now, could you please hurry up eating? I'm against being near other people." He looked at the other people in the restaurant with an expression of contempt.

"Yeah… you know what," John said, looking at his food, "I'm not actually that hungry." He pushed his plate aside and left money next to it. "We can go back to the flat."

* * *

Merely one minute had passed when Sherlock and John arrived back at Baker Street that Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs.

"You've got a client," she whispered, pointing downstairs. "Young lady. She seems to have an interesting case."  
"I hope so," Sherlock grumbled, then agreed to let her up. Mrs. Hudson trotted back downstairs to open the door; Sherlock remained unmoving in his chair. Thirty seconds later, an attractive girl with blonde hair came upstairs tentatively.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she said slowly, twisting her hair around her finger. "I'm-"

"A kindergarten teacher," Sherlock interrupted. The woman looked stunned. "Who told you…?"

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "No one told me. You've got red dry erase marker stains on your fingers and desk lines on your wrists. There's a pencil in your pocket, which suggests that you're not an office worker, because office workers use laptops much more frequently. You're here at 3:30, so you came after the kindergarteners went home; most work days don't end this early, and you're also quite worried - twisting your hair - so you most likely came as soon as possible, and if that is the case you would have been here sooner than 3:30. Conclusion: you're a kindergarten teacher who just got out of work and came to see me urgently."

"Well… yes," the woman said, surprised. "Exactly. I'm Anastasia Martin."

"Hmm," Sherlock said, ignoring her. He waved his hand. "Get on with it."

John pulled out a chair for her, shooting an apologetic look for his friend's impolite manners. "I'm John Watson," he said, settling into his armchair across from Sherlock, "and this is the rudest person you'll ever meet, but he'll probably be able to solve your case."

Anastasia gave them a nervous smile, flipping her hair back.

"Well, so I'm a kindergarten teacher. Some horrible things have been happening in my classroom."

"Tell the entire story," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and placing his fingers under his chin contemplatively.

Anastasia launched in.

"I teach a very happy bunch of students. Nineteen of them, and they're practically my own children - we get on so well! They all love me, and I love them, and there's never been any issues, ever. Until, last Monday, exactly a week ago. My most enthusiastic student, who always encourages the other students to learn - you know, she leads the group in the alphabet, always ready to answer any question, loves being at the front of the line in the hallways."

"Sounds like an obnoxious child. I hope she was murdered?"

"What!?" Anastasia said, shocked.

"He didn't mean it," John intervened.

"Yes, I did, John," Sherlock corrected. "Continue, Miss Martin."  
Anastasia looked at Sherlock with distaste, similar to how Sally Donovan looked at Sherlock. Sherlock had indeed crossed the line, but the way that Anastasia looked at him, as though he was a freak, irritated John.

"Yes, please continue," John agreed.

"Alright. So, like I said, I have this incredibly enthusiastic student. But on Monday, she came in, depressed. Barely spoke the entire day. Didn't participate. Mind you, she's only five!" she added as Sherlock sighed in boredom. "I didn't think much of it, either! I thought that something must have happened at home - a family issue."

"Did she have any bruises? Red eyes? Scrapes?" Sherlock asked.

"None. Looked the same. So, I thought I'd wait it out, and if she was still morose, I figured then I'd talk to her. But then on Tuesday, two more children came into school, as depressed as my enthusiastic student on Monday. They all had the same exact temper - sullen, silent, completely uninterested in class."

Sherlock leaned forward. "Let me guess. More and more kids began to show up as the days progressed with this strange manifestation of depression."

"Yes. Then on Friday, the first student… committed suicide. You might have seen it on the news."

"Suicide? But she is only five-" John said, astounded.

"Was."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said. "Did anyone else…?"

"No, but there were three more in the class with the depression today. I don't understand, and frankly, I'm shocked that we still had school today, considering Friday's tragedy." Anastasia's eyes were red and brimming with tears. "I hate to see my students hurting like this. Please, solve it, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock leaned forward. "You know, for such a dull person, you bring a truly fascinating case. I've never seen such young suicide. I have several questions for you. First, how many children in total have this strange depression currently?"

"Nine."

"What are the households like of the newly depressed students?"  
"Stable, as far as I'm aware. None of them have ever had issues before."

"Would you mind if my friend and I attend class with you tomorrow so that we may better examine the depression?"

"That would be great, thank you," Anastasia said. She gave them the address of the school. "Come at eight; that's when class begins." She left the flat, sniffling quietly.

"Something new!" Sherlock said excitedly, standing up and rushing over to his filing cabinet to rifle through papers. "Ah - here's the newspaper!" He read aloud the account of the girl's suicide. "Death by hanging."

"Do you think it could be murder?" John asked.

"I don't think there's doubt that the suicide was done because of the depression, but clearly there is malicious intent; I am fairly sure that there must be a drug being administered to the children. But where would the children all have received the drug?"  
He paced the floor. John got up and made tea for them both, handing the detective a mug. He took one sip of his own tea before setting it aside; he decided that he was still not hungry.

"It could be the lunch lady… but then, why would nine out of nineteen children be affected? And why?"

* * *

Anastasia Martin was waiting for Sherlock and John when they arrived in the classroom the next morning. Fortunately, the classroom had been close by, because John was feeling nauseous on the way in the cab. He hadn't said anything to Sherlock, who was more than eager for such a "promising" case.

"John, I want you to take notes on the students' behaviors. Their mannerisms, responses, everything," Sherlock told him.

"On it," John said, glad for an excuse to sit down quietly; his abdomen felt as though it were throbbing. Students began to stream into the room. There was an instant distinction between students; some appeared to be average five year olds, giggling and looking at Sherlock and John with interest; others, however, walked into the classroom quietly with frowns and put their bag in their cubby without speaking. Sherlock was watching them with great interest.

"Do you mind if I speak to everyone, Miss Martin?" Sherlock asked diplomatically. "I want to gauge their responses and hopefully gain insight as to a trend between the nine afflicted children that could insinuate a clue to their strange behavior."

Anastasia nodded. "Class!" she called commandingly, her voice soft and pleasant. "We have two visitors today. Please, give them your undivided attention and be on your best behavior."

The more sullen kids sank into their chairs without complaint, but it took more persuasion to settle down the other half of kids. Sherlock cleared his throat. John suddenly feared what the detective would say to the five year olds.

"Hello… children," Sherlock said, and for one of the few times in his life, John heard uncertainty in his flatmate's voice. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and this is my associate and friend, Dr. John Watson."

"You're a detective?" piped up one of the more vivacious kids. "Do you solve murders?"

"Charlie, not here-" Anastasia began to chastise, but Sherlock's eyes had lit up.

"I've solved a profusion of murders from the most baffling of locked-room impossibilities to the most gruesome with blood, stabbings, gunshots, lacerations, decapitations-"  
"Mr. Holmes!" Anastasia cried out.

"Right. Um," Sherlock said, looking out at the group of five year olds. "I have several questions for you. John, record any answers that they give us."

John nodded mutely, holding himself tightly; he was feeling rather warm and his stomach felt like it was bruised from the inside. It was rather distracting from the work.

"Although I have no doubt that none of you can recall your activities from ereyesterday and the previous week, can anyone enlighten me as to any suspicious, conspicuous, or unusual avocations that they engaged in recently?"

The room was dead silent.

"Sherlock," John said, ignoring the stabbing pain that accompanied speaking, "maybe rephrase that?"

Sherlock sighed. "John, I told you that I have no interest in adapting to the needs of illiterate subordinates."

"Yeah, I don't care. They're kids."

" _Fine_ ," Sherlock said, smacking his lips before enunciating the word with emphasis. "What have you all done this last week that's different from normal?"

"I went swimming," a girl offered from the back. "My dad is teaching me how."

"I couldn't care less. Rather, has anyone used needles recently? Been drugged? Do any of you have a recollection of consuming a food or drink that tastes unusual?"

"Mr. Holmes, I came to you for help," Anastasia said, warning flashing in her eyes, "but if you can't be civil and remember your audience, I'm calling Scotland Yard and taking you off of the case."

"Well, I assist Scotland Yard, so that won't do you much good," Sherlock retorted. "Can anyone answer my question?"

John realized it had been ten minutes since he had written one word. He panicked slightly; Sherlock would be irritated that he had missed important observations. Desperate to not ruin the case for Sherlock, he pretended that nothing was wrong, ignoring the pain in his stomach though it was getting increasingly worse. It also felt increasingly warm in the classroom; he pulled his coat off.

"Alright then, you lot, the depressed ones. Turn out your pockets," Sherlock said. There was some clatter as kids began to pull miscellaneous objects out of their pockets.

"Aha!" Sherlock said triumphantly. "Matching sweet wrappers - where did you all get that particular candy?"

John was only vaguely aware that Sherlock was solving the case and was getting close to catching the criminal, who appeared to have sold the kids candy for money. The candies were rigged with drugs to cause severe depression. John wrote down as much as he heard, determined to not miss anything. It was only a stomachache.

That is, until the pain began to move to the lower right side of his abdomen. As a doctor, he immediately recognized it then.

 _Loss of appetite._

 _Fever._

 _Pain in the lower right half of the abdomen._

Most likely, it was appendicitis, which could be dangerous if the appendix ruptured. In that case, he'd have to get an appendectomy. But he realized that Sherlock was ready to dash out of the classroom, his coat and scarf being thrown on. He got to his feet, cursing under his breath as his stomach flared with pain.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock yelled. "They all got the sweets from the same person, and they all ride the same bus - I think it was the bus driver! Let's go, he'll be returning to the bus garage!"

John sprang to his feet, following Sherlock quickly. They ran down the halls and out into the back of the school, where the buses were being parked.

"Which one?" John asked, trying to hold down his nausea.

"The one that sees us and is climbing back into the bus, obviously," Sherlock said, sprinting ahead. The bus roared to life and backed out of its position.  
"Come on, John!" Sherlock screamed. "If we run fast enough, we can hop on! The doors aren't shut!" The detective was flying, gaining on the bus that was trying to maneuver out of its spot and turn around to leave. John was behind, sprinting equally as fast, but every step felt like a stab in his stomach. Bile in his throat rose again and he choked slightly, pushing the vomit back down. He couldn't ruin this case for Sherlock. He couldn't. Nausea broiled through him again.

"We've almost got him!" Sherlock yelled again. "John, when we get on, I'll grab the man, and you take the wheel so that we don't crash!"

John heard, but all of the sudden, his abdomen had split in excruciating pain; he fell to the ground without realizing it, and heard Sherlock's frustrated bellow.

"John! What do you think you're doing!? We could have gotten him!"

John couldn't speak, he was collapsed in the dirt, clutching his stomach.

"John!" the angry voice said, coming closer, but now there was an edge of concern.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John croaked. "I have appendicitis… I tried to pretend there wasn't anything wrong, because I knew you cared about this case so much…"

"Idiot."

"I think it ruptured. Call an ambulance, it can be fatal if…" He stopped to vomit. Sherlock obeyed, and within fifteen minutes John was on his way to the hospital.

"What about the bus driver? The drug dealer?" John asked woozily.

"We'll get him tomorrow," Sherlock said confidently. "If you must know, John, for reassurance that you didn't ruin the case, I'd rather see a criminal go another day without being jailed than you perish."

"Gee, thanks," John muttered, as they arrived at the hospital.

 **Thank you so much for reading! Please please please leave a review and favorite/follow, it would make me so happy! :) Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/experiment gone wrong, and I'll try to write your suggestion!**


	12. Hypnotized - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock hypnotizes John in an experiment that goes horribly wrong.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 for the plot idea and goldensnitch0423 for the added feature in the story! This one is a bit shorter, but I hope that you like it :)**

* * *

"Fifteen inches of snow are projected to fall in the next two hours," Sherlock announced. "Not to mention that 6.75 have already fallen." With that, he picked up his violin and began to play a rather delicate, soft tune.

"I didn't know you liked snow," John noted from the kitchen.

The violin stopped. "I never said that I liked snow," Sherlock said slowly, as though replaying his own words in his head.

"Well, believe it or not, Sherlock, but I am capable of making deductions as well as you," John informed him.

Sherlock snorted in response.

John continued. "You've been meticulously watching the weather, without one single complaint about the snowfall levels. You also just began playing your violin - not just scratching at it, but actually _playing_. I'd say you're looking forward to the blizzard."  
"Trifle though your observation was, I promote your deductive skills from nonexistent to scarcely evident," Sherlock said flatly.

"Why would you like a blizzard? Wouldn't it impede on some of your cases?" John asked.

"I don't have a case at the moment. Additionally, snow provides the benefit of repelling visitors from our flat. I dislike people," Sherlock said in a monotone voice.

"Whatever you say," John said, and flicked on the television. "Should we get dinner, then? Soup?"

"I'm not hungry."

"I'll make it anyway," John said, hoping the detective would concede once it was made.

* * *

The flat was quickly filled with the comforting smell of tomato soup. John poured it into two bowls, filled each with the soup and croutons, and had wordlessly handed one to Sherlock (who accepted it without further ado) when the television blinked off and the flat was plunged into darkness.

"No!" Sherlock cried out immediately. "John! I had an experiment in progress that was testing the effects of a lightbulb on the human eyeballs!"

"Well, we've lost power," John said, thinking of the grotesque eyeballs that had been in their fridge for the past month and that Sherlock had only taken out that day to place underneath a bright lamp. "I'll get a flashlight and candles."

He went up to his bedroom to retrieve the lighting, then went back downstairs.

"While we wait for the power to come back on, don't open the refrigerator; because we need to keep all of the food in there as cold as possible," John said to Sherlock, unsure if the detective knew common sense like that.

"What do you want to do?" John asked, once the room was lit with candles. "Want to play Scrabble?" He knew that Sherlock enjoyed that game, and also that the detective would win profoundly, but there wasn't much to do in poor lighting. Sherlock gave no response; John took that as a yes.

"This isn't fair," John blurted out after thirty minutes of playing. "Even if I had great letters, you'd still win, but I've got all vowels."

"Actually, it is fair; we both drew seven letters from the bag, and your letters happened to differ from mine."

Sherlock played with a vocabulary so great that every other word placed on the board as they put their letters on, taking turns, that John hadn't heard of many of them.

 **Fjord.** Thirty points for Sherlock.

 **Lemon.** Thirteen points for John.

 **Zenith.** Thirty-nine points for Sherlock.

 **Shell.** Twenty-four points for John.

 **Nunchaku.** Ninety-two points for Sherlock.

 **They**. Twelve points for John.

 **Pluvial.** Sixty-three points for Sherlock.

 **Mow**. Eighteen points for John.

 **Pyrrhic.** Seventy-one points for Sherlock.

"What even is pyrrhic?" John asked exasperatedly.

"Try a dictionary," Sherlock said, but he was glowing with pleasure in his word skills. "You're pronouncing it wrong as well."

To neither of Sherlock nor John's surprise, the former won by two-hundred and sixteen points. Sherlock stood, smoothing his button-up shirt and black pants.

"John, I need to ask a favor of you."

"What?" John asked warily. "Wait - whatever it is - I refuse to do anything that we'd have to leave the flat for."

"No, no, it would be in the flat," Sherlock said. "I saw online earlier today an interesting concept and I thought that it would be a fascinating experiment, but I'd need your participation-"  
"I don't want to be the subject of your experiment," John said tonelessly.

"It's hypnosis, John! I read several theories on whether it actually works or not, and I was intrigued! I just want to try hypnotizing you, that's all!"

John sighed. Whereas usually Sherlock's experiments involved chemicals and dangerous substances, this one seemed to be relatively harmless, but with the detective, it was impossible to tell.

"Fine," he agreed reluctantly. "Just tell me everything it entails before doing it, alright?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, bouncing out of his chair eagerly. "If the hypnosis works, all that should happen is you'd view the world differently and possibly have different reactions than usual."

"How would you even perform a bloody hypnosis?" John asked tensely.

"By using a flashlight and words."

John was beginning to doubt the legitimacy of it, but he nodded. "Alright, just don't record me, and you're sure you know exactly how to do this?"

"Positive."

Sherlock pulled the flashlight over and shined it directly in John's eyes.

"Hey!" he complained, shielding his eyes.

"John, you have to look into the light for this to work," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John readjusted himself.

"This is stupid," he muttered, shifting in his chair. Sherlock shined the light back into his eyes, and his baritone voice was the last thing that John heard before the flat shimmered before his eyes.

* * *

He became aware of what he was doing with a jolt of shock and instant fear. The flat was coming back into view, but there were three things wrong.

First, he wasn't in the chair that he had been in when Sherlock had begun to hypnotize him.

Second, and much worse, Sherlock was on the floor, curled up and bleeding.

Third, the worst of all, John's foot was poised above Sherlock before he recollected himself.

"Oh my… Sherlock, are you alright?!"

The detective groaned. "Aside from cracked ribs, a bleeding wound, near suffocation, and a concussion, I'm perfectly fine."

"Sherlock!" John cried. "I did this to you, didn't I?"

"Well, you didn't intend to do it to me. You were under the impression that I was Moriarty, I believe."

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I…" John buried his face in his hands. "Let me help you."

Once he had Sherlock sitting upright on the bathroom floor, it was much worse than he expected; the detective looked practically broken.

"Tell me everything that hurts," John said, wrapping a bandage around Sherlock's wrist (who winced as he did so). According to Sherlock, John had slashed him with a knife.

"I already told you. Ribs, bleeding, concussion…" Sherlock said, trailing off, his eyes closing.

"No! Stay awake!" John said desperately. He felt sick. He had nearly killed his best friend. Sherlock was bruised everywhere, because John had apparently been kicking him on the ground right before he came to.

"We're going to the hospital," John said finally, calling an ambulance, and got Sherlock to stand gingerly. The detective would have tripped going down the stairs if John hadn't caught him, and the paramedics took him from there.

* * *

John stayed in the chair next to Sherlock's bed in the hospital, even when dinner came and passed, and when the sky grew dark and few people remained in the hospital.

He felt nauseated, every time he looked at the bruises, every time he saw the bandage on Sherlock's wrist, every time he looked at the detective. He couldn't help but imagine what it must have been like while he was under the hypnosis.

Sherlock was probably caught off guard, if John had lunged (and John supposed that he would have, if he had thought him to be Moriarty).

He felt sickened with himself, picturing the knife on the counter that he surely grabbed and slashed.

The pillow that he had pressed against the detective's face before changing attack tactics.

The kicks that he had launched, repeatedly.

Kicking him until he was curled onto the floor.

Kicking until bruises decorated his face.

Kicking until his ribs cracked.

Kicking only until he had awoken from the hypnosis.

John wasn't sure how to deal with Sherlock hurt; obviously, the detective had been hurt before, but not by John's own hand. What if Sherlock was angry with him? He couldn't bear the guilt that was gnawing at him, and didn't sleep the entire night.

* * *

Sherlock woke the next day.

"You're up," John said in greeting.

"Fortunately. I detest spending time unconscious. It's a horrible waste."

"Sherlock…" John began, rubbing his hands over his face again. "I can't stand knowing that I'm the one that hurt you… I just… I feel absolutely terrible, I don't know how to redeem myself… I want you to forgive me, but at the same time I don't, because you ought to be furious… if there's any way that I can pay you back for the pain I've caused you…" He broke off, trying extremely hard not to cry, but there was no mistaking the hot tear that rolled down his cheek. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked stunned. "Well, John, I must say you have caught me more off guard with your emotions than when you attacked me. Of course I forgive you. It was almost entirely my fault, anyway."

"Not really," John protested. "I'm sure you didn't ask for me to kill you!"  
Sherlock looked sheepish. "Well… I knew your perspectives would change… and I wanted to know how drastically… so once I had you hypnotized, I told you that I was Moriarty and that you should kill me or else I would kill Sherlock. So, it was entirely my fault."

John was speechless. "You idiot," he said after a few moments. "You moron."  
"But I accept your apology and offer my own in return. Forgive me, John, for causing you despair," Sherlock continued.

John's face broke into a smile. "You idiot," he repeated. "You utter idiot."

"Is the power back yet?" Sherlock asked suddenly. "I need to tend to my eyeballs."

"It should be. I haven't been at the flat."

Sherlock relaxed. "Well, at least I know that hypnosis works now," he said, grinning at John.

 **Thank you so much for reading! Please please please leave a review and favorite/follow, it would make me so happy! :) Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/experiment gone wrong, and I'll try to write your suggestion!**


	13. Poisoned - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock is poisoned and has a seizure.**

 **Warnings: Graphic description of a seizure.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks to the guest review that suggested I poison Sherlock, and to paula. who offered the awesome idea of Sherlock getting a seizure!**

* * *

"I don't understand the purpose of this," Sherlock complained. "I'd much rather study in the flat. I have no desire to - _interact_." He spat out the last word as though it were poison.

"What, is this your first birthday celebration ever?" John asked, not in the mood to hear the never-ending opposition to social gatherings. "It's the anniversary of Scotland Yard's establishment! You've done so much for them that it's only right that you attend, and it's only a small get-together during lunch, anyway. I think there's going to be cake and that's it."  
Sherlock snorted. "Anderson will be there."  
"Well, he does work there."

"Against my better judgement. It is paramount that we return to Baker Street by five o'clock, however. I have been preparing a substance that will expire by six and I need to take a sample of it."

John sighed. "Sherlock, you realize that it's three-thirty right now?"

"So?"  
"So, that would mean we'd only be at the party for thirty minutes."

Sherlock grimaced. "Parties are irrelevant excuses for people to _hug and chat and connect_!" he said, saying the second half of his statement in a falsetto. "Emotions! Sentiment! Love! What is the purpose of it? And yes, I am aware that we'd be there for thirty minutes. That was the point."

John ignored him as they got into a cab, Sherlock following despite his oppositions to the celebration.

* * *

"You guys made it!" Lestrade said cheerfully as they came in. "You know, I don't think we've ever had this many people come. Usually it's just an excuse for Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, myself, and a few others to take a small break from work. How'd you manage to get Sherlock out of the flat for something other than a case?" He laughed as he spoke, and grinned at the detective.

Sherlock wasn't paying attention. He was staring in a completely different direction at a painting on a wall. John suspected that he had retired to his mind palace.

"It actually took a lot of persuasion," John admitted. "It's as though he's allergic to people or something."  
Sherlock recovered from his thoughts to answer John. "Don't be ridiculous," he snapped. "I spend many of my hours with these people." He looked distastefully over at Anderson. "Much to my disdain," he added with contempt.

Sally Donovan joined the room. "Hey, Greg," she said brightly, taking off her coat and setting it on the desk. She surveyed the room. "You invited Freak?"

"Yeah, well, he's solved more cases than almost everyone else here altogether," Lestrade chuckled. "Not to mention just last night he got us out of a tight spot. Baffling suicide."

"It really wasn't. There were clear indications of hemorrhage in the lungs," Sherlock intoned. "Not to mention the bruising of the esophagus. If Anderson had thought to perhaps _observe_ , you might not have needed me."

"Oh, yes, says the one who has absolutely no idea of how to handle any social situation," Anderson replied. "There are different types of observations, some of which you severely lack in."

"Oh? Enlighten me," Sherlock said brusquely. "I doubt you can produce any observation that I cannot."

"Yeah?" Anderson asked. "Give me a moment." He took out his laptop and quickly typed into the searchbar. John could see from where he was standing, and exhaled: Anderson had searched 'Examples of human facial expressions'. He twisted his laptop towards Sherlock, presenting him with an image of a girl's face close-up. She had her face screwed up with emotion.

"What's this girl feeling?" Anderson asked Sherlock.

Sherlock, despite a look of annoyance on his face, leaned over to the laptop.

"There is no purpose to this," he said after a moment of silence. "The rest of the girl's body is unavailable for us to see, so we can't properly gauge the placement of her hands. Determining one's thoughts is best done from an observation of the entire body, not the muscles in the face; although those are frequently good indicators for fake or real smiles and lying."

"But what's she _feeling_?" Anderson prompted.

"I already told you, there is data missing from this image!" Sherlock snapped. He studied the image again despite his clear irritation. "Exhausted? The bags under her eyes suggest sleep deprivation, and this is further supported by the way her mouth is sagging slightly. Yes, I think she's tired."

Anderson looked amused. "No, she's quite clearly sad."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and snatched the laptop, taking a closer look.

"You don't see it?" Anderson asked. "I told you, there are different types of observation. I would bet that anyone else in the room could tell she's sad."

"It's fairly obvious to me," Donovan agreed. "Really? You don't see it, Freak? Are you so socially incompetent that you can't recognize an expression of sadness?"

John cringed at Donovan's words; they were certainly true, but she was spitting back the cruel words that Sherlock had countlessly used against her and Anderson, typically in the company of a corpse. He didn't say anything, however. As much as he disliked hearing Anderson and Donovan ridicule Sherlock's lack of emotional intelligence, he couldn't forget the multitude of occurrences in which Sherlock had insulted their intellect.

Sherlock had turned slightly pink.

"You're not always the smartest one in the room, Freak," Donovan said, taking a bite of cake.

Sherlock exhaled. "Oh, yes, you and Anderson are just so competent since you seem to have mastered one insignificant type of observation!" he said rapidly. "But you lack the necessary powers of deduction to infer that Anderson has not only an affair with you, Sally, but also another girl who works at the makeup shop, completely aside from his poor wife who is unaware of his two affairs. It also seems as though he was planning on breaking it off with you within the next week, I'd imagine. As for you, Sally, I confess I'm rather surprised that you're eating that cake there considering you've already gained five pounds in the past month. I suspect that it's because of your aunt's death last month."

There was a stunned silence. Lestrade had lowered his beer slightly in surprise. Anderson's face had twisted and Donovan was frozen for several moments before getting up and hurrying out of the room. John turned to Sherlock in astonishment.

"That, Sherlock, was not okay," he said.

"I was under the impression that we were exemplifying our specific talents in observation," Sherlock said calmly.

"Yes, but that's private!" Anderson said incredulously. He too got up and followed Donovan out of the room.

"Alright," Lestrade began, looking disconcerted. "Let's… anyone want some more cake?" There was a small murmur of consensus from Dimmock, and the atmosphere slowly regained its previous energy.

"Thanks, Greg," John said in a low voice. "Honestly, that was bloody awkward. I don't think anyone else would have had the courage to change the subject."

Lestrade waved his hand. "Nothing that hasn't happened before. Don't feel bad for Anderson and Donovan; they should have known that was coming. I mean, they've known him for five years, and I'd wager that they just wanted to have an excuse to call Sherlock a freak."

Anderson and Donovan returned, stony-faced, about ten minutes later.

"Don't you want any cake?" John offered, gesturing at the plate to Sherlock. "Or, there's some water over there," he added, pointing to the cups next to Anderson.

Sherlock eyed the cake. "I'll take water," he said, and swept over to take the top cup that was next to Anderson, proceeding to fill it from the practically untouched dispenser.

* * *

"Well, I guess we should be off," John said finally after an hour of Sherlock sending him glances that clearly meant he had no more desire to be at the party. "There's an experiment or something that Sherlock has going on, and I've got to get some paperwork done before work tomorrow."

"Alright, mate, thanks for coming," Lestrade said, clapping him on the back. "See you at the next murder, Sherlock?" The detective looked slightly mollified by this and nodded.

John took his coat off the hanger and was pulling on the left sleeve when there was a sudden gasp behind him. He turned around to see Sherlock leaning against the wall.

"You alright?" he asked, confused.

"Fine," Sherlock replied. "Nothing." His face looked slightly yellow. "Let's go back to the flat."  
"Alright," John said, concerned, but they left the office and stepped into the elevator to go down. He pressed the button for the ground floor and the doors slid shut. There was a moment of silence before Sherlock gasped again, this time clutching his abdomen.

"What is it?" John said more urgently. "Sherlock, there's obviously something wrong; you're jaundice! I'm a doctor, and you need to tell me."

"Nothing is wrong with me!" Sherlock confirmed, before sliding to the floor as the elevator doors opened to the first level. "Just - some pain." He made brief eye contact with John before looking away again and heaving himself up. "Let's hail a cab." He stumbled out of Scotland Yard.

"The road is this way," John said. "You're going the wrong direction, Sherlock."  
"Oh?" Sherlock mumbled, continuing to go the wrong way. John ran over to him and guided him the other way.

"Right. I think we should go to the hospital," John said.

"The… hospital?" Sherlock repeated, and several seconds later he looked up. "No! I'm fine!"

"You're clearly not! And stay awake!" John said, hailing a cab. Sherlock was closing his eyes. He looked the detective over. _What was wrong?_

"Sherlock, your hands are trembling," John noticed, and searched desperately through his mind, trying to think of what could be wrong. It had come on too suddenly to be a common ailment. Trembling hands, jaundice, stomach pain, mental disorientation, lethargy…

"I think you're having liver failure," John cried out, as Sherlock vomited. He rushed them into the cab.

"Take us to the nearest hospital!" he commanded the cabbie, who took one look at Sherlock and sped away. "Sherlock, you need to stay awake! Why are you having liver failure?" he asked no one, frustrated. "Stay awake!"  
Liver failure… it couldn't be from a fatty liver or too much alcohol consumption, because the detective always ate extremely healthy and John had never seen him take a sip of alcohol.

"Acetaminophen!" John cried out to himself. A wave of nausea broiled through him. What if Sherlock had overdosed… on purpose? He tried to shove the thought away. The detective wouldn't do that. He had promised that he was done with overdosing.

Could it be an accidental overdose? But John saw no reason that Sherlock would have taken acetaminophen recently because he hadn't needed pain killers. That left… intentional overdosing from someone else.

 _Think_ , John told himself. _What has Sherlock eaten?_

The only thing he could think of was the water at the party. The water that Sherlock had drank after insulting Anderson and Donovan. The water that had been sitting next to Anderson.

But there wasn't anything John could do about Anderson now, so he gritted his teeth and shook Sherlock slightly, who retched again.. "You need to stay awake!" he commanded. "You're having acute liver failure. We're on the way to the hospital."

Sherlock nodded dizzily, and that was when his body began to convulse. John swore.

The detective was writhed against the seat, his muscles rhythmically spasming. John sprang into action, turning the detective gently to inhibit vomit going down his airways. He unbuckled Sherlock from his seat to prevent him injuring himself and called 999 as they arrived at the hospital, dashing around to Sherlock's side and opening the door. The detective was convulsing still, and now unconscious, his eyes rolled into his head.

"Here!" John yelled to paramedics who were coming out. "My friend has an overdose on acetaminophen, acute liver failure, and a seizure!"

The seizure began to end and John exhaled in relief, but now the detective was passed out completely. Anxiety consumed him as his friend was put onto a stretcher and hurried into the hospital.

* * *

John was sitting next to Sherlock's bed when the latter woke up around fourteen hours later.

"Hey," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Brilliant. What… happened? And did you check on my experiment?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh. Sorry. I didn't," John said. "It'll have expired, then, or whatever was happening to it?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, looking melancholy. "It'll take another week to replicate it. What happened?"

"Well, we left Scotland Yard. You were looking pretty rough… and began showing symptoms of stomach pain. Then, you did some vomiting, mental disorientation, and had a seizure. It was really scary, mate."

"How?" Sherlock demanded.

John sighed. "We actually just finally finished sorting things out. Apparently, Anderson was disgruntled by your insult, and he slipped an overdose of acetaminophen into your water. He claims to Lestrade that he thought it was only going to give you nausea, and he supposedly feels incredibly sorry about what happened. He had no idea that you would nearly die from liver failure."

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah," John agreed.

"Not Anderson - well, yes, Anderson is an idiot, but that's fairly obvious - I'm an idiot," Sherlock amended. He gripped his hands in his hair. "I should have… I should have noticed, I should have been able to detect it in the water…" He looked at John with panic in his eyes. "Why didn't I notice that the water was poisoned?"

John shifted in his chair. "You realize that no one else would have noticed it either. You don't always have to be a detective on edge, you know. It's okay to loosen up and not check your drink for poison."  
"Don't bore me with your sarcasm, John," Sherlock said. "I will henceforth conduct more research on the particular odors and appearances of combinations of food and poison."  
"You don't need to do that."

"I will."

John rolled his eyes. "I guess if it helps prevent you from having another seizure, then go ahead."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I concerned you," he noted.

"Fantastic deduction," John said. "Of course you concerned me! It's not everyday you see your best friend convulsing in a cab from liver failure!"

"Best… friend?" Sherlock repeated.

"Yeah."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "Thank you, John," he said finally. "For… not letting me choke on my vomit."

"Of course I wasn't going to let you asphyxiate on your vomit," John said, grinning, and offered a glass of water to Sherlock. "Thirsty?"

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and sniffed it pointedly, throwing John a sly look before taking a sip.

 **That one was so much fun to write! If you enjoyed the story, favorite / follow, and I'd be so grateful if you'd leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/accident to have happen to John or Sherlock! Thanks so much! :)**


	14. Gunshot - Sherlock and John

**Summary: Sherlock and John get shot. Sherlock is hit much worse. However, a week later, John begins to get an infection from the bullet.**

 **Warnings: Descriptions of blood and symptoms of tetanus. Cancer is mentioned once briefly.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks so much to Starcross123, who offered this amazing idea to me!**

* * *

"John. Clear your schedule," Sherlock said from his position in his armchair, thumbing through the file of a new murder. "We're cornering one of Moriarty's people tonight. She's supposed to be shooting another victim tonight, if I have correctly cracked the cryptography that Moriarty sent to me the other day."

"Can't," John replied. "I've got a date. With Lacey Johnston. I already told you."

Sherlock paused for a moment, staring into nothingness, before speaking. "A date? Why another? Obviously you can't maintain a relationship," he said airily. John poked his head around the corner.

"Watch it," he warned. "Or…" He didn't finish, returning to the kitchen.

"Or you'll punch me in the nose?" Sherlock suggested, picking up his violin and plucking at the strings.

"Yeah," John agreed.

"Hmm. I doubt you could reach," Sherlock said.

John sighed. "You just wanted to say that line, didn't you? But you're on your own tonight with that murderer of Moriarty's." He hesitated. "Take Lestrade with you. If it's a dangerous situation, you shouldn't go alone."

"I won't be alone," Sherlock promised. "John, you worry too much. Go on your date with Lacey."

"I'll be back by ten," John called from the stairs as he left the flat. Sherlock sat, stock still, before leaping up, grabbing his coat and scarf, and quietly following his flatmate out of the flat.

* * *

John was meeting Lacey in a movie theatre. Dull. Sherlock marveled at how John hadn't even thought to look behind him; if he had, he would have known the detective was only twenty feet away. John paid for his and Lacey's tickets to the romantic comedy - again, _boring_ \- and Sherlock purchased the same ones, watching carefully as John and his date walked, hand in hand, into the theatre. He sat in the row directly behind them, and since the movie was painfully mind-numbing, he slipped into his mind palace to wait. The two got up right before the movie to buy popcorn, and all he had to do was turn the other way and bend over as though tying his shoe for John to not notice him. The human mind was so horribly unobservant.

* * *

"Want to get popcorn?" John whispered to Lacey as they waited for the movie to begin. She nodded and they hurried out of the theatre quickly, buying enough popcorn to last them a week. The lights were dimming as they entered the theatre again. John was relieved to see that no one had sat in front of their seats. There was only a tall man who seemed to be tying his shoe behind their row; aside from him, most people had sat farther back.

Lacey seemed to be liking the movie. John was struck by her green eyes, and hoped that she was enjoying the night as much as he was. His hand held hers a majority of the film, and he only thought once of how Sherlock was managing with the murderer that was supposed to be shooting a victim. He considered checking his phone - just in case the detective was in trouble, or hurt, or worse, but his phone was shut off because of the movie.

"Good movie," Lacey said once it had finished. They gathered their coats and left the theatre. It was late night and the streetlamp illuminated the sidewalk poorly as people streamed out, leaving the street empty and silent. She walked out of the streetlight with John, and they were leaning in to kiss when there was the sudden cold muzzle of a gun pressed against his chest. He backpedaled automatically, holding up his hands. Lacey held the gun steadily, pointing it directly at him.

"Sorry, John," she said in the same voice as before, but it now had an edge of cold to it. "Boss's orders to kill you."

As she cocked the gun, several things ran through John's mind (aside from _I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die_ ). The murderer that was supposed to be shooting a victim tonight for Moriarty… the murderer that Sherlock was supposed to be catching.

" _She's supposed to be shooting another victim tonight,"_ was what Sherlock had said. John looked at Lacey.

"Let's talk this through," he said as calmly as possible, his hands still in the air. "Don't shoot me - I'd like to speak to your boss first. Please," he added, desperate for more time. "Mr. Moriarty, right?"

Lacey's hands tensed. "Who told you?"

"I did," came a baritone voice from the shadows of the streetlight. Sherlock stepped out, and John thought that he had never been so happy to see his friend while on a date. Sherlock stood next to John, his coat collar turned up and scarf blowing in the wind as though he were a superhero coming in the nick of time. He pulled out John's gun from his pocket.

"I recommend that you put your gun down, Lacey," Sherlock said. "Moriarty might be paying you to kill people, but I doubt that those payments you're receiving are covering the cost of cancer treatment."  
At this, Lacey's hands trembled slightly - John wished for the umpteenth time that Sherlock didn't have the habit of using deductive reasoning to hit the weak points of people who could kill them - and the gun was fired. Once at Sherlock, then Lacey turned the gun to John and shot.

Another shot rang out as Sherlock shot Lacey in the chest. She grunted, clutching herself, and scampered off in the other direction.

"Sherlock? You alright?" John asked breathlessly, turning to his friend. The bullet intended for him had hit the edge of his hand, and it certainly hurt, but he'd had much worse pain. "Sherlock?!"

His friend was breathing harshly, collapsed to the sidewalk. The gun was still in his hand from having shot Lacey.

"Where?" John demanded, ripping Sherlock's coat open.

"Upper right chest," Sherlock said, his teeth clenched. John could already see the crimson stain expanding on Sherlock's shirt. He took out his phone, cursing as he realized it was still off. He turned it on, then fumbled through the detective's coat pocket for his phone, and dialed 999.

"I need an ambulance! My friend's been shot in the shoulder," John said, feeling for Sherlock's pulse. It was weak and rapid. "He's going into shock." He gave the address, then turned back to Sherlock.

"Alright, this might hurt, but we have to limit blood loss. It's going to be okay, you're going to be okay," John narrated, taking Sherlock's scarf and pressing it against the wound as gently as possible to prohibit moving Sherlock, or else he could also get a spinal injury. "Come on," he muttered to himself, waiting for the sound of the ambulance. It was an entire fifteen minutes later that he heard the siren, and he felt Sherlock's pulse again.

"Stay awake, alright? Help is coming," he said, and the paramedics took the detective into the ambulance.

* * *

"Well, that hospital was tedious," Sherlock grumbled as they returned to Baker Street two weeks later.

"You almost died," John said, rolling his eyes.

"I detest sponge baths," Sherlock reminded him. "And being forced to remain in bed all day. Now, I can resume productivity. I haven't had a chance to receive updates from my homeless network on Moriarty, nor have I gotten to participate in an experiment I was planning on performing a week ago."

"Yeah, well, that's what happened when you get shot," John said. "But, I want to thank you again, mate. For ensuring that I didn't die on my bloody date."

"Again, I knew immediately when you reminded me that your date was with Lacey Johnston that she was the murderer I intended on catching. You provided an excellent way to get to her as bait."  
John frowned. "Why didn't you just tell me before your date that she was a murderer?"  
"I wanted to wait for the ideal time before she shot you to capture her," Sherlock explained poorly. John shook his head.

"Next time, just-" He stopped suddenly, rubbing at his neck. It was sore. "I'm going to bed," he decided, leaving Sherlock to his violin. His back was stiff, and his bed sounded perfect at this time, so he laid down to read for an hour.

It was dusk when he put his book down. The violin was still being played. It had been rough scratching of the bow at the beginning, but Sherlock was now playing a mournful tune that was pleasant to listen to.

Unfortunately, he was feeling sweaty and abnormally warm. He took his temperature which confirmed his hypothesis - fever. It wasn't high; only 37.6° C. He meandered into the kitchen, glancing briefly at the detective, who was playing the violin while looking out the window with his back turned to the kitchen, and took some painkillers before returning to his bedroom.

* * *

Sherlock went to bed an hour after John but woke up three hours sooner than him. He made himself a cup of tea before proceeding to clean the lens of his microscope.

At nine in the morning he finally heard John wake up, but it sounded different than usual. It was slower. The footsteps sounded shorter and slower as well. Sherlock considered the cause. John had looked stiff the night before, and he recalled him taking painkillers before bed; mostly likely he was sore in the back.

Sherlock was pleased to see that he was correct in his deductions. John came downstairs with his back arched.

"G'mornin'," he mumbled to Sherlock, making himself tea. He went to the cupboard for more painkillers - his jaw felt uncomfortably tight and sore.

Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play Beethoven; he supposed that his friend wasn't in the mood to hear random plucking of the instrument considering his stiff neck.

"Mmm, that's a good one," John said, nodding to the violin. "You don't play Beethoven th-that m-much." He winced suddenly, rubbing his jaw. "Ow. My jaw is so b-bloody s-sore."

"And spasming, too, it seems," Sherlock said without looking.

"Sherlock? Did you do something with the ibuprofen?" John asked, rummaging in the back of the cupboard.

"Yes. I slipped it into your food last week for an experiment."

John sighed, then shuddered. "You git," he said, irritated. "I've got a fever. And - and w-why would you even d-do th-that? Slip ibuprofen in-into my f-food?" He massaged the back of his sore neck which was damp with sweat.

"My apologies," Sherlock said absently. He drew out a long note on the violin, using vibrato, and enjoyed the soothing tune of the melody; then paused the note for emphasis. Once he finished the note, he became acutely aware of another sound in the room. A choking sound.

"Sherlock!" John was mouthing from his armchair, gesturing to his throat panickedly with fear in his eyes. "Can't - breathe -"

Sherlock leapt up. "What is it? What do I do?" he asked quickly, before John began to spasm.

 _Think!_ Sherlock told himself. Unfortunately, when John had moved in with him, he had deleted much of his medical knowledge since he'd have the doctor with him, but the information was still there, just buried deep in his mind palace -

 _Think!  
Spasming. Can't breathe. Sore back. Fever. Sweating. _

_Tetanus!_

Sherlock fumbled for his phone and dialed 999 before attending to John helplessly.

"Uh… it's alright, John. Help is on the way," he said, offering as much assurance as he was capable of. His friend didn't answer. Sherlock ran his hands through his curly hair, and ran to the window, waiting for the ambulance. The wound in his shoulder from the gunshot throbbed at the movement painfully, but he ignored it, and when he saw the ambulance coming he shifted John gently into a position to be taken into a stretcher as quickly as possible.

"Hurry!" he shouted at the paramedics. "He's having a seizure!" He paced the room as John was taken away; what if his own lack of medical knowledge cost John's life?

* * *

"You're a moron, John," Sherlock said to his flatmate in the hospital when the latter finally woke up. "Stupid. You're supposed to be a doctor and you didn't recognize the symptoms of tetanus?"

"I thought I had had a vaccination for it, so I didn't consider it," John mumbled from the bed. "Ouch. I really hate lockjaw." He took a deep breath. "It's hard to swallow."

Sherlock tapped his foot rapidly on the floor. "The tetanus came from the bullet that grazed your hand two weeks ago, obviously. Slightly fascinating. I almost died from a severe gunshot wound and you almost died from a grazing."

"That makes it s-sound even more s-stupid," John said, clutching at his neck. "Could I get some w-water please?"

Sherlock obliged immediately and filled a cup to hand to John, then smirked before sticking a straw into it. John sipped before choking slightly.

"You alright?" Sherlock asked after a moment.

"Fine. I just want to get back to the flat," John said, laying back down. "Do you think you can talk to Mycroft about getting me out of here soon?"  
"I'll try," Sherlock agreed, and picked up his phone to call his brother.

 **Sorry for the kind of lame ending, but thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review and favorite/follow, I'd be so grateful! :) Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/experiment gone wrong, and I'll try to write your suggestion! Another huge thank you to Starcross123 who offered this lovely idea to me, I had so much fun writing it :)**


	15. Drugged - John

**Summary: Sherlock wakes up in Baskerville with no memory of the previous night and a strange syringe in his pocket. He receives a text saying that if he doesn't find John within the twenty-four hours, the doctor will die.**

 **Also, I've changed what happens in THoB slightly to fit this storyline. Hope that's alright :)**

 **Warnings:**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 who provided this amazing idea to me!**

* * *

John was preparing to return to the inn that he and Sherlock were staying at in Baskerville when strong arms grasped him from behind.

That wasn't good.

He reacted immediately from his years in the war, throwing his head backwards and satisfied to hear a cry of pain. He turned around, throwing a punch, only to feel the tip of a needle slide easily and clumsily into his neck.

That especially wasn't good.

Unfortunately, he was alone in the street too; the town had gone to bed an hour earlier and was dark and quiet. He struggled, following through with his punch that successfully knocked his attacker in the ear, but whatever he had been injected with was a fast-acting sedative.

"Sherlock!" he bellowed out into the night in hopes that the detective, who was supposed to be in the inn, had heard. He kicked at the man attacking him but his kick was weaker, and the man easily dodged it. The last thing that he heard before falling to the ground in a heap was the man telling someone else, most likely a comrade, to start the truck.

* * *

Sherlock woke up to a sea of concerned faces above him. How irritating. He was instantly alert, which was strange, because he was fairly sure that he had been in a deep sleep. He next realized that he was lying rather uncomfortably on cobblestone.

"You alright, mate?" the man above him was saying. Sherlock got to his feet immediately, swaying slightly.

"Fine," he insisted. It was early morning, and he was in the center of Baskerville.

"How… did I get here?" he asked, uncertain; he remembered vaguely driving to Baskerville with John, but nothing else.

"I dunno, mate. It's just a bit after sunrise. Came out into the street and saw you lying on the ground. You sure you're okay?"  
Sherlock regarded the concerned faces of passersby that had been gazing him with confusion and worry.

"I already said that I was fine," he said, running his hands through his hair - why didn't he remember falling asleep in the street?

 _Drugged_ , a small voice said at the back of his mind.

"You need the doctor, mate?" the man asked.

Sherlock's thoughts were firing off rapidly. "What? Yes! Where's John? And stop calling me 'mate'!"

"Well, we don't have a doctor named John, but there's an office right up the street, if you want to be taken there," the man responded.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "No. Where's _my_ doctor? Dr. Watson? Dr. _John_ Watson?" he asked, using the name for emphasis; to his annoyance, the man shook his head. "Don't know him, mate," he said.

Sherlock swept away from the town center and the imbecilic people who were quite frankly smothering and wandered off down a different street.

Alright, so he had been drugged. He had no memory of arriving at Baskerville or what had happened since. Clearly, someone had done something -

But where _was_ John? Sherlock pulled out his phone and checked his texts. There wasn't anything from John. There was, however, a text from an unknown number. Sherlock clicked on it warily before firing off a response.

 **You've got twenty-four hours to find your friend, or he dies.**

 **Who are you? Where is John? SH**

 **You've got to determine both of those yourself if you want your friend to live.**

 **Stop being dull. You're a stereotypical kidnapper. Give me a clue, then. SH**

 **Check your other pocket.**

Sherlock hesitantly slipped his hand into his pocket, and found the familiar shape of a syringe in his hands. He took it out; it was filled with a blood red liquid that he had never seen before. It had a lower viscosity than blood but was the same color.

 **Inject that liquid into your friend before the twenty-four hours is up, and he'll survive. If not, he'll suffer a painful death.**

 **Tell me where he is. SH**

 **I'll start by giving you the first clue of the library.**

Sherlock snapped his phone shut.

"Where's the library?" he barked at the first person he walked by.

"Just around the corner," the girl answered, startled, and hurried away, looking over her shoulder. Sherlock ran into the library, and searched for anything that seemed out of place or extraordinary, but it seemed to just be a library.

He pulled out his phone again.

 **How do I know you're not lying? SH**

There wasn't an immediate response, then Sherlock's phone rang. It was the unknown number. He opened his phone.

"What are you doing?" he asked, not waiting for the person on the other line to speak. "Where have you got John?"

There was silence on the other end for a moment except for the sound of slight wind.

"Sherlock?" came John's voice suddenly.

"John! Tell me what you see!"

"I'm outdoors, in the moor, beneath an-"

There was a violent thud from the other end. Sherlock clutched his phone tightly, feeling something he didn't typically feel. Fear.

"John?" he asked helplessly. The line went dead. Sherlock inhaled steadily. He couldn't let fear, or sentiment, affect his logical thinking.

He paced the library, thinking hard. John was out deep in the moor, obviously. He had said "beneath an", so his next word was going to begin with a vowel. Apple tree? Airplane? Evergreen? Oak? But it wasn't necessarily a noun, it could have been an adjective. But there wasn't much out in the moors; there were trees, rocks, and open fields. If John was beneath something, it was either a rock - if he was in a cave - or beneath a tree.

Sherlock slammed his fist onto the table in frustration. Another text alert went through on his phone.

 **Couldn't have your friend telling you the location. His head is a bit bloody now too.**

* * *

John had woken up to find that he was outside and lying beneath an old willow tree. His attacker was with him, and now he could get a good look at him, but he had absolutely no idea who he was. He was tied to the tree as well.

It seemed as though he couldn't go one month without being kidnapped since he had moved in with Sherlock Holmes.

"I suppose you're going to kill me after drawing it out?" John asked his kidnapper sarcastically.

"You have guessed correctly, Dr. Watson."  
John rolled his eyes. "You know, Sherlock was right. The criminal classes really are becoming duller and duller. Very cliche."

"Oh, you won't be so confident very soon," the man said, and plunged a needle into John's leg.

"Jeez, man," John said, rubbing his thigh. "What's wrong with you?"

The man said nothing. At the moment, at least, John couldn't feel any effects, so instead he pushed his apprehensive thoughts aside and tried to think of a way that he could escape or contact Sherlock somehow.

The sun rose soon after and John was able to see a bit better. The willow he was tied to was enormous, with very old bark and extremely tall. It had a large overhang so that he couldn't see the moor very well; he assumed that was where he was. His kidnapper looked only a bit older than him and had a graying beard and a muscular build.

"So," John began after another five minutes. "Why are you doing this? Who are you?"

The man's lips curled into a smile. "Ivan Bridge. I won't tell why I'm doing this, but I will say that it involves a puzzle for your dear flatmate Mr. Holmes." As he finished speaking, he pulled out his phone and began to text. Several minutes later he glanced at John.

"I have to call your friend to prove that I'm not lying. Please speak to him, but I ask that you don't reveal anything about where you are, or the consequences for you will be rather painful."

"Right. You'll kill me even more painfully."  
Ivan Bridge dialed the number and put the phone on speaker.

"Say hello and that you're alright, for now," Bridge commanded before the baritone voice of Sherlock came through.

"What are you doing? Where have you got John?"

John made eye contact with Bridge, who nodded sharply to him.

"Sherlock?"

"John! Tell me what you see."

John remembered Ivan had told him not to say his location. Screw Ivan Bridge.

"I'm outdoors, in the moor, beneath an-" he was cut off by a blinding pain in his head, and Bridge had snatched the phone from him.

John felt the back of his head woozily. Blood. That wasn't good. At that precise moment, nausea broiled through his chest, but it wasn't normal nausea - it was a sickening, frightening feeling of nausea. Clearly, the drug was beginning to make its effects now.

Definitely not good.

* * *

Sherlock had replayed the phone call in his head many times already. He couldn't be on the northern end of the moor because it was raining there, and he would have heard the rain. He wasn't near Baskerville (he was fairly sure) or else John would have most likely begun his sentence by stating that he was near the town. Furthermore, Sherlock had discarded the cave idea. If John was in a cave, the acoustics would have been much different.

Beneath… a tree, then. He had already gone through all of the types of trees that began with a vowel, from acacia to oak, but there hadn't been any trees beginning with a vowel that were in the moor. John had definitely said "Beneath an…" so Sherlock supposed he was going to say an adjective that described the tree he was under.

Sherlock was wandering the moor now, searching the horizon for any sort of tree that could have a human beneath it. There were varieties of forests on the edge of the moor, and he had absolutely no idea of where to begin, but started with the eastern end of the moor, where tall pine trees shrouded the edge of the woods. Henry Knight could wait. John Watson needed him now.

* * *

John wasn't sure what the drug was, but it was particularly unpleasant. His head fortunately hadn't been concussed, but now all he could feel was a terrifying surge of fear in his chest along with nausea. Worst of all was his slowing pulse.

He hadn't realized it was slowing at first, and once he did first notice, he assumed it was from the head injury. But this was different. His heart had been steady at eighty-four beats per minute when he had first checked, ten minutes after waking up. Naturally he had checked; as a doctor, it seemed second-nature.

An hour passed, and it was at ninety-five beats per minute. It was then that he began to breathe faster; out of fear or from the drug, he wasn't sure. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead and shut his eyes, waiting and hoping to hear Sherlock's voice.

Two hours passed. His heart rate was at one hundred-six. Ivan Bridge left the weeping willow's cover momentarily with his phone, leaving John tied to the tree. That was when he heard the heavy snap of branches cracking. Despite his panic, he held his breath. The outline of a bear was lumbering by the willow, but he couldn't move, so instead he stayed as still as possible. The footsteps of Bridge came back, and the bear immediately turned and ran away. John let out a sigh of relief. He'd heard back at the hospital in London of many occurrences in which people had been killed by bears, and the only thought that ran through his mind was if he'd be the next casualty. He considered telling Bridge, so that they could move from the bloody willow and get away from the bear, but decided against it - hopefully, if Bridge left again, he'd be mauled by the bear. John realized a second later that that was the first time he had ever wished ill harm upon anyone aside from Jim Moriarty.

Six hours had passed. Or had it been eight? John couldn't think much. The bear kept returning and leaving, making his pulse rise even more. It would stalk the edges of the willow, sniffing deeply, then leave. Bridge seemed to not be concerned by the bear, but it was really freaking John out by now.

One-hundred sixty beats per minute.

* * *

Sherlock was desperate. He couldn't find John, and daylight was dwindling more and more the longer he searched. Fear kept pounding through him.

 _Don't let sentiment cloud your judgement_ , he kept telling himself, and pulled the syringe out again. The liquid flowed around in it.

 **Give me another clue. It's been twelve hours since the first. SH**

Sherlock had already tried texting the man several times but there hadn't been any response - until now.

 **Interesting how the heart responds to a fear stimulant. Would you say that a pulse of one hundred and eighty-two is healthy?**

 **Is that the clue? SH**

 **No.**

Sherlock waited, staring at the screen, hoping for any sort of clue. He was also dearly wishing that the kidnapper was lying about the heart rate. A heart rate of one hundred and eighty-two could cause fatigue, shortness of breath, dizziness, chest pain, fainting, or cardiac arrest. He had even done an experiment on himself with a fast heart rate once, and it hadn't been very pleasant. Mycroft hadn't been very pleased either when Sherlock was taken to the hospital. He was distracted by a new text alert.

 **August 18th, 1502.**

Sherlock's mind raced. Clearly, this date was linked to John; most likely, an event occurred that day that correlated with either the location of John or what was happening to John at this moment. He wasn't satisfied with the single date, however, and decided to play stupid in order to get as much information as possible from the kidnapper by making him more confident that it was an obscure clue.

 **Is that some sort of numerical code or cypher? 8181502? SH**

Sherlock could only hope that the kidnapper would divulge more information under the impression that he was exceptionally clueless. Sure enough, his hypothesis was correct.

 **You're much slower than I thought you'd be. Try the records at the Baskerville library. It'll get you one step closer to your friend.**

 **He's dying, by the way.**

Sherlock ignored the jab at his intellect and the unnecessary distraction of John's state, and sprinted towards the library again.

* * *

John wasn't sure what was the worst.

His head was feeling light, as though it was filled with helium. His thoughts kept being inhibited by the stabbing pain the back of his head. In short, it was the worst headache he'd ever experienced.

His heart was also beginning to hurt and was pulsing painfully every ten seconds, which was frankly terrifying. He counted it to be two hundred beats per minute. That could be fatal. Whatever the drug was, it had sped his heart rate to an alarming rate.

Third, his chest was beginning to feel constricted and it was progressively getting more and more difficult to breathe. It was as though he was trapped in a small box where his diaphragm couldn't expand.

Lastly, the bear seemed to have been replaced with flashbacks of Afghanistan. Every twenty minutes or so, he would hear gunfire and occasionally a small explosion in the distance beyond the willow he was underneath. Everytime he flinched and suppressed a cry of terror.

Not to mention he was painstakingly hungry and thirsty. He kept nearly falling asleep but tried not to. His thoughts weren't very organized but the doctor inside of him told him it wasn't a good idea to fall asleep when he had a foreign drug in his system.

Ivan Bridge hadn't spoken in hours, but resolutely sat near the tree.

"Mr. Bridge?" John asked finally. "How long are you going to keep this up?"  
His kidnapper's eyes flickered upwards. "As long as it takes for your friend to determine where you are."

"Yeah, well, you're going to be dealing with a dead body soon if I go into cardiac arrest, and I'm guessing that you don't want to do that. I recommend that you let me-" He shuddered suddenly as a bomb went off behind him.

 _Come on, Sherlock._

* * *

Sherlock was hurtling out of the library. It had been twenty-three hours. The library had been closed when he had returned to it, and he had to wait until seven the next morning for it to open. Usually, he would have simply broken in, but the building was old and the doors were so heavy that it would have been extremely difficult to get into. Additionally, the owner was right above the library, and Sherlock knew for a fact (based on what he had deduced earlier) that the man was a war veteran that kept a gun with him at all times.

So, it seemed best to wait until the library opened in the morning. He had immediately dove for the records, and it didn't take long to find what he needed.

On August 18th of 1502, there had been sixteen hangings at an old willow tree on the northwestern end of the moor as punishment to suspected witchcraft. That was all Sherlock needed to know before he was racing out of the library and hijacking someone's car to get to the willow tree.

Obviously, John wasn't being hanged. It didn't fit with what Sherlock had heard over the phone, nor did it align with the purpose of the syringe in his pocket. Sherlock thought it was more likely that John was being kept at the willow tree where the people had been hanged.

* * *

John was dying. He could feel it. His breaths weren't coming and his heart was ripping into his chest. There were more explosions to his right.

"John!" came the sudden voice of Sherlock. "John!"

Through the pain John responded.

"Sherlock?" His voice was cracked and shaky. The next moment, the detective came barreling through the overhanging of the willow; with one smack of a rock Sherlock had knocked Ivan Bridge unconscious and then he was at John's side.

"John! Are you alright?"  
"Dying," John muttered, clutching at his heart; it was tearing itself out. "Sher…" He couldn't finish his sentence.

"John, stay still," Sherlock said, fumbling a syringe out, and the next second there was a throbbing in his neck.

The pain had reached a peak, but thirty seconds later, the trembling in his chest began to ease. His breaths became longer, and the constrictions on his chest began to fade.

"What happened?" John groaned, managing to get into a sitting position.

"A puzzle. Cardiac arrest. A lot of waiting," Sherlock answered shortly, now untying John and reusing the rope to tie an unconscious Ivan Bridge to the willow. "We can let him starve here."

"Speaking of… can we get food?" John asked dizzily, leaning forward and vomiting. "Ugh. Sorry. I'm already feeling better, though."

Sherlock nodded. "We can get food, then I want to start on Henry Knight's case."

"You've just finished this one! Don't you want a break before starting your next case?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly said, _Idiot._

"Hey!" came the voice of Bridge, who had woken up. "Untie me!"

Sherlock towered over him. "Tell me why you did this," he commanded, and raised the rock threateningly. Bridge winced at it.

"It was a puzzle! Someone paid me to do it!" he said, throwing his hands up. "I'm sorry!"  
"Who?" Sherlock demanded.

Bridge looked away. "I'm not supposed to say," he said. Sherlock threw the rock at him hard.

"Ouch! Fine! His name was… Moriarty."  
The corner of Sherlock's mouth had lifted into a smirk. He didn't move his gaze from Bridge. "Want to get food now, John?"

"Definitely," John said, and they left the willow, leaving Bridge quite alone.

 **Wow, that one was long. I had fun doing a more complex plot. Another HUGE thanks to Starcross123 who gave me the idea!**

 **Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review and favorite/follow, I'd be so grateful! :) Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/experiment gone wrong, and I'll try to write your suggestion!**


	16. Traumatized - John

**Summary: John goes into emotional shock during a traumatic case. Sherlock attempts to handle the emotionally charged situation.**

 **Warnings: Description of anxiety and psychological and emotional trauma. Descriptions of war and hostage situations.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 for suggesting this idea to me!**

* * *

"Sherlock!" John yelled as he slammed the refrigerator door. He stormed over to the detective who was curled up in his armchair. "Why have you got severed _feet_ in the fridge?"

Sherlock didn't open his eyes. "I'm measuring the width of the balls and heels of feet with varying ages of men and women to have a better depth of understanding with footprints. Really, John, they're only feet. You didn't care when we had thumbs in the fridge for an entire month."

"Yeah, well, you had put the thumbs in a bag, Sherlock. You didn't put the feet in anything! They're bleeding over the food! You could have at least wrapped them in some sort of plastic bag!"

Sherlock opened his eyes at this. "Oops. I forgot to do that. My apologies. There are bags under the sink." He shut his eyes.

John laughed incredulously. "No, I'm not touching your bloody feet. You're going to take care of them."

"What?! Why? You're closer, John, and I'm sitting here, thinking. It would make much more sense for you to do it."

"Then I'll just throw them out."

Sherlock growled and threw himself up from his chair, stalking over to the kitchen and opening the fridge. He pulled out the feet and thrust them into a baggie, then washed his hands. "Satisfied, John?" he asked sarcastically, returning to his armchair. John crossed his arms.

"No."

"Why on earth not?" Sherlock demanded, irritated.

"For one, there's still blood on the shelf of the fridge."

A text alert interrupted them.

"Time sensitive case, John!" Sherlock said excitedly, leaping upward with vigor in his step. He pulled on his Belstaff and scarf. "Let's go! We have a criminal to catch!"

John took one pitiful look at the poor, unsanitary fridge, but followed his flatmate out of the door.

* * *

They were sprinting through a park this time. Sherlock was twenty paces ahead of John, who was cursing the detective's long legs, and they were on the heels of a murderer that had taken off when he had been confronted. Unfortunately for the perpetrator, Sherlock was faster than him, and as they flew through the park John was sure that it would only be a matter of time before the criminal was captured.

To his surprise, Sherlock stopped suddenly, his hand out to his left to indicate to John to stop running. John caught up, breathing hard, to where the criminal was holding a little girl with a knife against her throat.

"Take one more step, and I'll kill her," the criminal warned. "Now, you're going to let me go - and I won't hurt the girl if you don't follow."

John's pulse raced. The girl was being held tightly by the man and tears were streaming down her face. She was wide-eyed, looking beseechingly at Sherlock and John. The detective had his hands in the air to show that he wasn't holding a weapon, and John did the same, nodding to the criminal.

"Alright. We won't come closer, but you have to let her go," John said. He winced suddenly as a memory surfaced from Afghanistan-

 _His friend was on his knees, his head shoved downward by just another person in the war. John had his hands up, pleading with the man that he would let him go as long as his friend was released in return. The man took out his gun. John's friend cried out as the muzzle was placed against his head._

" _Don't come any closer," the man warned, forcing John's friend's head down even more._

John shook his head, clearing himself of the memory. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. The was a girl with a knife against her throat, taken hostage.

The man took a step back, still holding the girl. He continued to creep backwards until he was far enough away from Sherlock and John.

"We have a deal," Sherlock reminded the man. "Release the girl, and we won't come any closer." John was distracted by the tense situation, but he vaguely noticed that Sherlock was valuing the girl's life above catching the criminal. The self-proclaimed sociopath _did_ have a heart, John relished.

It as at that moment that John knew the murderer had lied. He was still holding the girl, but his hand twitched, and before John could cry out a warning, the girl's neck was lacerated.

"No!" he yelled at the same time that Sherlock hollered, "We had a deal!" but the criminal was already sprinting in the other direction.

"Oh my…" John breathed, running over to the girl. "No… oh no…" The memory surfaced again.

 _His friend made eye contact with John, and the edges of his eyes tilted upward slightly as though he knew what was going to happen - and with a loud bang, he keeled over with his head gushing blood._

 _John screamed and ran to his friend's side, tilting his face upward._

" _It's alright, mate," he soothed, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."_

 _But he knew that there was nothing that he could do; the wound was too deep. He tried to keep his eyes from tearing up - he had to stay strong. For his friend._

 _His friend choked slightly, and made eye contact with John one last time before his gaze shifted blankly to the sky. John cradled his head, shutting his eyes, when an explosion forced him to get up and sprint away, leaving his friend in the midst of the battle._

"It's… it's going to be okay," John could hear himself saying. He was holding the little girl whose neck was bleeding profusely. His own voice was shaky. "Everything's going to be alright…" He could feel Sherlock standing behind him, unsure of how to react to the dying girl.

The girl made eye contact with John and passed away. John got up, stumbling to the right. Gunshots fired in his ears. The girl was lying, limp, on the ground… there was nothing he could do to save her… just like his friend…

"John!" He could hear Sherlock calling his name.

"I'm alright," he muttered, swaying. "Just… brought back some memories." He could

feel Sherlock grabbing his arm and leading him to a cab, then out of the cab and into Baker Street - everything was moving as though it were in fast motion. He was suddenly aware that he was sitting in his armchair. He shuddered, trying to hold back tears.

* * *

Sherlock observed John. His flatmate was shaking quietly in his chair. His pulse was rapid and his eyes were dilated - obviously, Sherlock had checked - and he was quite sure that John was experiencing emotional shock.

Of course, now he was struggling with what to do. John would know what to do. It had to do with emotions, after all. Sherlock sat across from John, contemplating his friend. Should he hug him? Offer him tea? Neither seemed quite right. He didn't understand emotional situations; what was the point of them? They only caused confusion and necessary sentiment. Despite his loathing of the _emotions_ , he felt a compulsory need to help John, because he supposed that John would be helping him if the roles were reversed.

"John?" he asked finally. John didn't answer nor did he look up. Sherlock sighed and pulled out his phone.

 **Emotional trauma** , he typed into his phone. Several links popped up, and he selected one, scrolling past the symptoms and causes and to treatment.

 **Ensure that the person experiencing trauma is not in need of immediate medical attention.**

That was easy. Sherlock had already done that. He doubted John needed or wanted medical services. He continued to the advice for helping someone struggling with trauma.

 **Be patient and understanding.**

What was that supposed to mean? He decided that patience meant letting John talk when he was ready, but what if John needed prompting? He disregarded this bit of advice, deeming it moronic.

"John?" he asked, and the doctor answered by looking up and meeting Sherlock's eyes this time.

 _Success. I should write to the author of the article and tell them that they're wrong with patience,_ Sherlock thought triumphantly.

\ "I'm alright, Sherlock," John said, his voice cracked.

 _And understanding._ What did "understanding" encompass? Sherlock had no idea at all but made a wild guess.

"No, you're not," Sherlock said.

 _Understanding means comprehending the situation, right?_ Sherlock told himself. _Then I should be helping John see that I can comprehend the situation._

He felt more confident now and continued. "Your pulse is elevated and your eyes are dilated. You're sweating but it's rather cool in here. You're fatigued. Those are all symptoms of psychological and emotional trauma. You're not okay."

Sherlock expected John to look better - he had been understanding, after all! - but instead his friend's brow crinkled and he rubbed his hands over his face, most likely wiping his eyes. He didn't look better.

Sherlock moved on to the next bit of advice, because the last one seemed completely useless.

 **Offer practical support.**

Sherlock knew that he could do this one - it was easy.

"Want me to get some milk?" he offered, standing up. John looked at him. "What? Yeah, sure. Uh, thanks."

Sherlock swept out of the flat, following the same path that he had watched John take to the store. He bought milk and was even sure to get the same brand and type that John liked. He wondered vaguely if he should have left John alone at the flat, but when he returned, his flatmate was in the exact same position.

"I got the milk," Sherlock informed him, setting in in the fridge where blood from his feet was dried. _Oops. That's probably practical support._

He took a paper towel and soap and wiped up the mess. John wasn't even looking. Sherlock sat back down across from his friend, frustrated.

"I cleaned the fridge for you," Sherlock alerted him. John didn't answer. He opened his phone again, desperate for better advice from the article.

 **Don't take the trauma symptoms personally.**

As if he would do that. Sherlock didn't succumb to emotions. But, he thought, that most likely meant that he shouldn't be frustrated by John's lack of praise for him getting the milk and cleaning the fridge. Maybe the article was right on that one.

 **Don't pressure them into talking but be available if they want to talk**

This seemed simple enough, but Sherlock had been mulling it over for five minutes, trying to decide how to phrase that advice into support for John. He finally opted to reuse the words.

"John…?" Sherlock asked tentatively, and was relieved when John said, "Yeah?", albeit in a weak voice.

"John, I wanted you to know that… that I am available if you want to talk."

John looked genuinely surprised at this. "Well… thanks, Sherlock," he said, offering him a smile. "Really, I'm alright, mate."

 **Help them to relax.**

"Want to go out for an ice cream?" Sherlock asked, attempting to heed the last bit of advice. Ice cream was soothing. It was impossible to not enjoy ice cream.

"Really?" John asked. His eyes narrowed. "You hate junk food."  
Sherlock exhaled. John really was being difficult. "I permit myself to indulge on occasion, John. I'll pay for the ice cream, though, if you'd like to go out and get one."

"Well…" John seemed to be struggling for words. "Yeah. Yeah, let's do that." He broke into a smile and stood up.

Sherlock decided that the Internet could be helpful after all, he thought. They left the flat, now chatting, to go get an ice cream.

 **I really liked writing this. Having Sherlock try to understand an emotional situation is tons of fun to write! Anyway, thank you so much for reading this! I would be eternally grateful for a suggestion, and if you have any ideas on an injury/experiment gone wrong/ accident to happen to Sherlock or John, please let me know in a review! Don't forget to favorite/follow!**


	17. Drowning - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock nearly drowns in icy water.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks so much to paula. , who offered this idea to me!**

* * *

"John! You take the other side! Make sure he doesn't escape!" Sherlock yelled. They had cornered their latest criminal - a bomber - on a narrow bridge above an icy river. John obeyed, sprinting to the other end of the bridge. It was difficult to breathe because the air was taut with cold. Wind bristled through John's jacket as though it wasn't even there, and he envied Sherlock's long, thick Belstaff and scarf.

Once the bomber's back was turned, occupied with Sherlock, John ran over and tackled him to the ground. To his surprise, the bomber through an elbow into his face with alarming agility, and slammed him onto the pavement. John recovered quickly to see Sherlock and the bomber latched, arm and arm, struggling for the upper hand, kicking one another. There was a moment of silence when only the wind was whispering into their ears, then with an expression of shock, Sherlock's thin frame was toppled over the railing of the bridge with a solid kick to the chest. John didn't have time to feel fear or horror. He was prepared to dive off of the bridge before common sense arrived - he called Lestrade.

"Greg! Get an ambulance here, now!" John yelled into the phone, then without another glance at the bomber, he dove into the water.

It was as though he had dove into a pit of knives that were all stabbing at his body because the water was so cold. He searched desperately for Sherlock, swimming under, and coming up for air, feeling panic freeze his insides more than the water ever could. He almost yelled with relief when he saw the detective's curly head surface in the rushing water.

"John, I can't breathe!" Sherlock gasped almost instantaneously, his left hand scrabbling against his chest. John remembered the hard kick to his lungs. He swam over and supported his friend, trying to kick his way to the left. Sherlock was struggling to stay afloat even with John holding him up in the current. His face was blue and his breaths spasming with a lack of oxygen.

"Can't- breath-" he choked, reiterating his dilemma with a wide-eyed look.

"We need to swim out!" John yelled. "No, this way! We'll get hypothermia within a minute! Sherlock, you've got to kick!"

Sherlock nodded, comprehending, and they began to kick their way towards shore. John was almost entirely supporting Sherlock, who was wheezing for breath and choking. Every so often they would slip beneath a wave of water. John was able to surface quickly, but Sherlock, who was out of breath from the kick and hadn't any time to recover, was taking longer to resurface and catch the little breath he had.

They were ten feet from the riverbank when Sherlock slipped under water. He had fallen unconscious. Without further ado John submerged himself to pull his friend up; he still had his arm in his coat, and it took about fifteen seconds to get the detective above water, then another thirty to kick his way back to shore. He pulled them up onto the sand, shivering with cold, and Sherlock's body was trembling as well. They flopped onto the ground, laying there in the biting cold, shaking.

 _That's a good sign, at least we're still shivering,_ John thought, who had seen deaths at the hospital from hypothermia. Sherlock was still unconscious so John leapt into action, doing mouth to mouth CPR. His heartbeat was still there, albeit faint, when Sherlock woke suddenly and coughed water up.

"John! Where's the bomber?" Sherlock asked immediately, shaking from the cold water. "You didn't let him go, did you?" His speaking was rapid, and his breath was feeble and scratchy from the water, but the contempt was still obvious in his voice.

"I dove into the water after you!" John protested.  
"You idiot! Now he's gone and will probably kill another dozen people in a bombing! Think things through next time instead of answering to the first and moronic response that your small and barely functioning brain provides you!" Sherlock said, blinking at the lights of the ambulance that was arriving.

"I saved your life!" John said, stung.

"I think I could have managed perfectly fine on my own," Sherlock asserted.

John raised his eyebrows in shock. "You fell unconscious while we were swimming back. Which, mind you, I was doing entirely, because you couldn't swim from that kick to the chest! You would have _drowned_ without me!"

At this, Sherlock subconsciously rubbed his hand over his chest, which was no doubt still hurting. John barely realized that paramedics were now hovering over him and Sherlock. He was suddenly aware of how tired he was. A nagging voice kept telling him to stay awake, and he obeyed, but once they had been riding in the ambulance for a bit of time - he wasn't sure how long - he finally fell asleep.

 **This didn't really come out how I planned it to… oh well. I had fun writing it, but when I finished I realized it was my shortest story yet. By far. Oops!**

 **Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review and favorite/follow, I'd be so grateful! :) Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/experiment gone wrong, and I'll try to write your suggestion!**


	18. Exhaustion - John

"Bored!" Sherlock bellowed, yanking his bow down the violin to produce a painfully high note. "Bored, bored, bored!"

"Take up a new hobby," John suggested, glancing up from his laptop. "Try a sport. Join an art class."  
"Art? Art is a monotonous waste of my time and I have no incentive to pursue such a useless practice. I need a case, John! It's been six days!"  
John sighed, resigning himself to the fact that Sherlock simply couldn't handle boredom quietly. He shut his laptop and stood.  
"Well, I'm going to bed. Try sleeping. You may not like it, but it really passes the time, you know."  
Sherlock glared at him from his position on the couch.

"You sleep too much, John. I don't understand why your body needs to rest so much." His face suddenly twisted upward into a grin, looking blankly past John. Clearly, he had thought of an activity that was worth his time. Sherlock waved his hand upward vaguely. "Go. I need to think about something."

John gave Sherlock a look of annoyance, but the detective didn't see; he had shut his eyes and placed his fingers under his chin. He made his way up to bed, and after brushing his teeth and getting dressed in pajamas, climbed into his sheets and fell asleep.

The next morning, there was an acrid scent rising from downstairs. John could smell it the moment he opened his eyes. He went downstairs, stumbling slightly from sleep, and sat rather ungracefully in his chair. Sherlock was in the kitchen and had taken no notice of his appearance. He had clearly been up all night, wearing the same clothing as the night before.

"So, did you eat at all during the past seven hours? Or sleep, for that matter?" John asked pointedly, deciding that he wanted tea and standing back up. Sherlock didn't answer.

"Tea?" John offered after brewing two mugs, and held one out to Sherlock, who took it without glancing up or expressing gratitude.

Another hour passed in silence while John read the newspaper and Sherlock continued his work in the kitchen. Every so often the sizzle of a chemical would break the silence. Mrs. Hudson was vacuuming downstairs, and a constant tune of white noise drifted through the flat.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed suddenly, standing up so quickly that his chair was knocked backwards. "I finished!"

"Finished what? You haven't said one word to me all morning," John said, disgruntled; nevertheless, he stood up in order to see what his friend had been so focused on.

"My experiment! You prompted me to do it, actually," Sherlock added. "Look!"

He thrust a vial of a smelly blue liquid to John.

"Sherlock, I don't know what that's supposed to be."

Sherlock exhaled in exasperation, and set the vial back down with a small clink.

"I conceived the notion of a stimulant to influence sleep patterns. It was quite easy, once I designed the formula. A certain mixture of chemicals, and the resulting chemical will either reduce or increase sleep time, depending on the formula." He then gestured to the array of vials across the tables. "This one here will increase the body's sleep requirements by one hour, this one by five, this one will reduce it by four, and this one reduces it by approximately thirty minutes!"

"Wow - you did all of that, in one night? That's actually quite impressive," John said truthfully, examining the different vials.

"Really?" Sherlock asked. He turned to John, his face flushed with pride.

"Truly. Brilliant. You should write down your formulas - this could be used by other scientists."

Sherlock lifted the vial on the far left. He lifted it to his mouth and swallowed it in one gulp.

"Sherlock!"

"Relax, John. I need to test it, don't I? And to answer your earlier question, I didn't sleep at all last night."

"So did you take a vial that increases sleep time?" John asked hopefully.

"Don't be moronic. Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "I usually need about five hours of sleep per night - although I always neglect that, I admit - and this vial should decrease my sleep needs by four and a half hours."

"You are utterly insane," John said, shaking his head. He raised his tea to his lips and drank several sips, then put it back on the table. There was a strange taste in the tea, sort of a chemical taste-

"Sherlock. Did - you - just - slip - one of those vials _in my tea_?" He asked through gritted teeth.

"Don't be absurd, John. It's completely safe. You don't need to get so worked up. I need a second tester alongside myself to ensure that the effects are congruent.

"You _utter idiot_ , Sherlock Holmes! Which _bloody vial_ did you dump in there?"

Sherlock looked up, looking slightly surprised at John's expression.

"Well, I thought that it would be most fascinating to apply the vial with the opposite effects, so it should increase your body's need for sleep by about four and a half hours."

"You - I can't - you could have _asked_! You could have chosen a vial that wasn't so detrimental to my day!"

"Stop overreacting. The effects will only last two months, and you'd have to consume it again if you wanted the effects to continue."

"I don't even know how much sleep I usually get now," John began.

"Seven and a half hours," Sherlock answered automatically.

"So if your bloody experiment works, you're saying that I'll be needing twelve hours of sleep each night for two entire months?" John bellowed, running his hands through his hair.

Sherlock moved the other vials off of the table, ignoring his friend's anger.

"We need milk," he observed, opening the fridge door.

"I'm sure you expect me to get it," John said tightly.

"That would be convenient," Sherlock responded.

John stalked over to his coat and threw it on.

"You'd better hope that your little experiment doesn't work," he warned, and began to make his way out of the flat.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock called after him, slightly nervously. The sound of the door slamming rang through the house. He sighed, and went back to cleaning the experiment.

John returned at six that night. He couldn't believe how obtuse his friend could be, and had decided to ignore whatever chemical it was that Sherlock had slipped into his tea. It didn't matter if he _needed_ twelve hours; he was still going to bed at ten-thirty like he usually did.

Sherlock was texting in the living room when John walked in.

"New case?" he asked, hanging his coat up.

"Yep," Sherlock said happily, popping the "p" at the end. "Lestrade just contacted me. A family of four was found dead in their house. Want to come?"

John agreed, and soon they had gotten into a cab and were making their way over to the crime scene ("Murder, obviously," Sherlock had proclaimed instantly).

"The killer - yes, John, there was a malignant intent - potentially hasn't gone far, and I'm hoping that there will be a clue as to where his next destination will be. You brought your gun as I asked?" Sherlock said quickly, rubbing his hands together. He didn't wait for an answer. "We might have to wait him out, and-" he suddenly clapped a hand to his head. "John, you have work tomorrow, don't you?" he said unenthusiastically.

"Yeah. I can still help, though, I just can't do a chase until dawn," John said.

"I'm not worried about you being late to work, it's just that I have another pressing case tomorrow and I don't want you to be sleeping during it!"

John shifted in his seat. "Just because of your stupid experiment, I'm not going to suddenly need to be sleeping tomorrow, I'll just sleep tomorrow night. It'll be fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him critically. "You'll probably be missing about six hours of sleep that your body needs tonight. Keep that in mind. I'm going to be irritated tomorrow if you're slowing us down."

John fought to keep his temper down. "Well, seeing as it's completely your fault, I don't think that a bit of patience will hurt you tomorrow-"

"We're here," Sherlock interrupted, and he swept out of the cab. John followed suit.

"They've all four been dead for about twelve hours," Lestrade said. "No traces of poison in them, but it's hard to tell at this point.

Sherlock bent down and began to examine the victims. John leaned against the wall and fought back a yawn. His stomach flipped at the possibility that Sherlock's experiment had worked.

"Strangled by a woman. She left only twenty minutes ago. She's on a bike and has a small dog with her."

Lestrade sighed. "I believe you, but could you please tell me _why_?"

Sherlock stood a bit straighter. "All of the victims have stab wounds, but there's barely anything on the floor at all, so they've been moved, most likely to hide evidence of their positions in the original crime scene. I presume it's upstairs, they're all in their pajamas. Their necks all have bruising - even John could have seen that one, I'm astounded by your lack of observational skills - and if you had cared to notice, you would have seen that a small dog lives here, but it's missing, and all of the doors and windows had been closed, yes?" He examined the clothing more closely on the dead woman. "You're looking for a curly long-haired white dog. Furthermore, there is a clear bike track leading up to the house and away, and it rained forty minutes ago. So, a woman came here, strangled them, then probably decided that she wanted the crime scene to be more inconspicuous, so she returned to stab them and move their bodies. And yes, it's a woman, because there is a scent of perfume on their bodies that does not match the perfume of the dead woman's." He finished with an air of pompousness in his voice.

"Brilliant, Sherlock," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "And we all thought that they were stabbed. Okay, well, I'll get the team out searching, and-"

"No. You're too slow. John and I will go," Sherlock said. "John, come on."

John obliged and pushed himself off the wall. Lestrade frowned.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Fine. Why?"

"You just look a bit peaky."

Sherlock cut in. "No worries, Gabriel. He's fine. I performed an experiment on him which forces his body to need four and a half extra hours of sleep, that's all."  
"That's all?" John interrupted. "For you, maybe, now that you actually are a machine-"

"Let's _go_ , John," Sherlock complained, and they set off, Sherlock tracking the most likely path of the bicycle like a hound.

They wandered the neighborhood until it was eight, and finally Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.

"Obviously! It's a rental bike! John, see the print of the wheel? Let's go!"  
They took a cab to the bike rental shop. John was glad for the rest, and was now so exhausted that he didn't care if Sherlock thought he was weak. He closed his eyes, and could feel a heavy lethargy swirling through him when Sherlock shook him.

"Stay awake. I don't want you tired while we're pursuing a murderer."

"Fine, Sherlock," John said, exasperated, and fought to keep his eyes open.

"How do you feel?"

"What?" John asked, surprised. "You care?"

Sherlock blushed slightly. "Oh - well - I mean, I do care, but I was more curious as to the effects of the experiment. I need to know if it's more powerful than typical fatigue, or less. Do you feel more or less tired than you usually do if you stay up two hours later than usual?"  
"More, I suppose," John answered. "What? Is it going to act more powerfully? Will I pass out while we're running?"

"Doubtful," Sherlock replied, but to John's slight concern, his friend sounded unsure.

"Yeah, a woman returned a bike 'bout an hour ago. She was in a hurry," the bike rental clerk was saying.

"Where did she go?" Sherlock asked immediately.

"Sorry, I can't disclose that information," the clerk said uncomfortably.

"So you know where she went. Tell me. Now," Sherlock commanded.

"Sherlock! Be more polite," John reprimanded, offering the clerk a weak smile as an apology for his friend's insolence. Sherlock ignored him and leaned across the table.

"Tell me, or I'll tell your wife that you're cheating on her with both her sister and her friend."

The clerk turned crimson and he leaned back, fury in his voice.

"Where did you hear that?"

Sherlock wasn't intimidated. "I didn't hear it. I saw it. Tell me where the woman went, and I won't say a word about your affairs."

The man seemed to contemplate whether he should bash the detective's head in or storm out, but he finally grumbled, "The fast-food restaurant around the corner. She had a uniform on and looked like she was headed for the night shift."

Sherlock turned on his heels to blast out the door. John hovered back. "Thanks," he said gratefully, and after shooting another apologetic look, he hurried after Sherlock.

"Are we going in?" John asked, catching his breath as they stood outside of the greasy diner.

"No. We're going to ambush her as she leaves. At this hour, she'll probably be the last one out."

They leaned against the wall and sat on the cement, prepared to wait for a couple of hours. John shut his eyes gratefully, but Sherlock was too quick.

"No, John. I need you to research every hiking path within fifty miles of us, for tomorrow's case. Take note of each that is in the vicinity of a garden, if you can."

John groaned. "You realize that Google isn't that specific."

"That's why I thought it would be a good activity while we're sitting here for multiple hours."

"Then what are you going to be doing?"

"I'm checking every sort of vegetation that can cause an allergic reaction," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John pulled out his phone and set to work obediently. Within a half an hour his head was pounding and he was struggling to read the words that were becoming blurrier and blurrier. Sherlock's hands were flying across his own screen, and every few seconds a new flower or bush would be on the screen before Sherlock flicked to the next image.

"Now, John," the detective said suddenly in a low voice. "Pretend to be drunk."

John looked up, and realized he had been staring at his phone without reading for a solid half an hour. Sherlock sprung to his feet right before the door to the diner opened, and immediately took on the disposition of an incredibly drunk man. A red-headed woman walked out as John stood up and followed Sherlock's example.

"You gotta cigarette?" Sherlock was asking. His voice was slurred and dizzying. John stumbled behind him, and it was rather easy because he was so tired. The woman rummaged in her purse for one, and lightning quick Sherlock had her pinned against the wall of the diner.

The woman cried out in pain, clutching the cigarette tightly in her hand.

"John. Alert Lestrade that we have caught our murderer quite easily."

"What are you talking about?" the woman cried. "Let me go! Please!"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't play stupid, you're already stupid enough. Where's the dog you took?"

John ignored the woman's pleas that she had no idea what Sherlock was talking about and texted Lestrade.

 **Found the murderer. 12 Johnson Street.**

He hit send as a headache tremored through him. He pressed his hands to his eyes, battling against the fatigue that was pounding in his temples.

"John, she apparently has the dog in the back, where she plans on taking it to the puppy mill she's been running," Sherock deduced. "Make sure she doesn't go anywhere while I rescue the poor dog she's kidnapped."

"What? Alright," John agreed, his head feeling heavy. He took over pinning the woman to the wall. Sherlock took off into the diner.

"I didn't do it, I swear," the woman pleaded. "I just want to go home!"

John shook his head. Everything around him was muffled.

"No," he slurred. "Sherlock - Sherlock's never wrong."

The woman's body suddenly tensed, and without warning, she threw her elbow back into John's face. He stumbled back, stunned, and everything went black for several seconds. When his vision returned, the woman was holding his gun. He blinked, swaying slightly, and dove for her, but it was as though everything was moving in slow motion. She lifted the muzzle of the gun and raised it to his head.

"Did you text the police?" she insisted.

"I - um," John said, trying to form the words in his mouth.

" _Did you text the police?_ " the woman demanded more forcefully, shaking him.

"Lestrade," was all that came out of John's mouth. Suddenly the headache in his temples split. The woman seemed to take that as an answer, and yanked him away. He stumbled along with her propelling him forward.

Something wasn't right. This wasn't just exhaustion. Whatever was in the experiment that Sherlock had done seemed to have tripled what John used to consider fatigue. He clumsily followed along with the threat of his gun against his head, when Sherlock's baritone voice rang out, "John!" from the diner, which sounded farther than John had imagined it was.

"Keep moving," the woman commanded, then suddenly they turned into an alley. That was the last that John saw before the black around his eyes swallowed his vision completely.

"John. John," an impatient voice was saying.  
John opened his eyes. They were still in the alley, and it was night. Clearly, he had passed out. He began to feel any sort of pain on his head that would have given reason as to why he had passed out - the woman must have hit him over the head - but found nothing.

"Did I pass out because of your stupid experiment?" John asked, standing up shakily.

"I believe so. But that's irrelevant. _You lost the woman_ ," Sherlock accused him, glaring angrily. "Lestrade's arrived at the diner and we have no murderer for him to arrest, thanks to you."

"Thanks to me? Who's the one who drugged up my tea?" John asked angrily, and it was only then that he saw Sherlock holding the small white dog. It was rather furry and had a wagging tail. Sherlock saw him looking at the dog.

"Her name is Murder. She's homeless now," Sherlock said with a melancholy expression. John blinked through the fog of sleep that was threatening to overtake him again.

"Sherlock, there is no way that the dog's name is Homicide."

"Well, she doesn't have a collar, so I thought I'd give her one," Sherlock said, then glanced at John sideways. "She's alone."

John sighed. "I'll text the local shelter and see if they can take the dog." He pulled out his phone, only to be stopped by Sherlock's wiry hand. He looked up, surprised.

"Can we keep her?" Sherlock pleaded.

John felt his jaw open slightly. " _Keep_ her? Sherlock, I thought you hated anything that couldn't form a competent sentence!"

"What? No!" Sherlock said defensively. "But she found you. I mean, she's not a tracking dog, obviously, but I was searching for you and she was around the corner sniffing you and wagging her tail. So I named her Murder, because a quadruple murder is how I met her."

"Did you hit your head?" John asked, his voice slurred, and he resorted to leaning against the wall again. His head began to throb again. "Okay, you know what? Take her back to the flat tonight, I have no energy left. Tomorrow we'll discuss this."

Sherlock's face lit up like a Christmas tree. The dog was squirming in his arms, and that was the last thing John saw before sliding onto the ground and passing out again.

John woke up the next morning to the sound of barking before his alarm even went off. He had a vague memory of stumbling up to his bed at Baker Street while Sherlock carried the little white dog inside. He staggered into the bathroom, shutting his eyes when he remembered it was Monday.

Sherlock was in the kitchen scowling at a paper that was scribbled over with formulas.

"Well, John," he said briskly, slamming his hand on the table. "I made a minute miscalculation. The sleep alteration drug you took will only last forty-eight hours before wearing off." He rubbed his hands over his face. "I'm so _stupid_ , I forgot to include the hydrochloric acid. I thought you might be relieved to hear that, however."

John was relieved, but he didn't let it show. "Let me know before you plan to administer a drug to me from now on," he snapped.

Sherlock ignored him. "Last night I worked ahead and already solved the case that we were going to do today. You know, the one with the vegetation and hiking paths?"

"Great. I have to get to work. See you later," John said, putting his coat on. His gaze lingered on the small white dog bouncing around his feet. "Tonight, we're bringing the dog to the shelter, Sherlock. Don't do anything to the poor dog while I'm gone, either - don't experiment on it, feed it, and let it outside every so often."

"I can care for a dog, John."

It was nearing seven o'clock when John left the office. It had been a long day, but a rather easy one; all he had to deal with that day was a teenager with a sprained ankle, an elderly woman with a sore hip, and three people with colds.

He returned to the flat to find Sherlock and the dog playing with a tennis ball, Sherock throwing it and the dog eagerly bringing it back.

"John," Sherlock said in acknowledgement of his friend's return.

"Tomorrow," John said firmly. "Tomorrow, we're bringing the dog to the shelter."

Sherlock looked surprised. "I thought you wanted to tonight," he said.

"Well, I would if I didn't feel like it was ten hours beyond when I want to go to sleep," John retorted, throwing his flatmate a dirty look.

But tomorrow came, and the dog stayed.

"I've decided," Sherlock said as they ate takeaway. "We're keeping Murder."

John's mouth flapped open. "And I have no say in this? We're not keeping the dog."

"I gave you many chances to bring Murder to the shelter. You were too slow. Besides, you could have easily done it on your way to get the takeaway tonight. You're delaying," Sherlock countered.

John threw his fork down. "Fine. We keep the dog. But we're not calling it Murder."

"But she _answers_ to Murder, John. It's her name. We can't change it."

Sherlock had an expression of defiance, and John knew that his flatmate had won.


	19. Toxic - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock, while trying to help John, accidentally poisons himself with his own experience, and John must save him before it's too late.**

 **Warnings: I did research for the poison, so most of it is fact-based. However, I bent some rules with it, and used my imagination to have it work with my story better. Most of it is accurate, though, aside from a few bits :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 who provided this idea to me!**

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock spat, stalking around the living room. "It was obvious that the mother was the murderer - no one else bothered to notice the arsenic on her shoes! I don't understand why I've been banned from Scotland Yard for the week, because I only _helped_ where they're too idiotic. They wouldn't have solved it without me!"

John looked up from his book. "Sherlock. You withheld evidence and also took on the murderer without letting Lestrade know. If you had told him, then he wouldn't have banned you from his cases for a week."

"But he needs me! Scotland Yard will _crumble_ without me! I can't believe Lestrade would do such a thing," Sherlock added, an expression of hurt on his face.

"It's not personal, mate," John said, returning to his book. "He's following protocol because you're a civilian, and also I think he's doing it just to remind you that he's in charge, not you."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath and swept his violin under his chin, and began to play a slow tune.

"Hang on - is that a _Christmas_ song?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, it's the middle of July!"

Sherlock didn't answer but continued to play what John recognized as "Silver Bells". John was sure that it wouldn't be long before his friend began the familiar groans of boredom, so he grabbed his coat.

"I'm going out for a bit," John said. Sherlock nodded slightly in acknowledgment. John wasn't quite sure where he was going, but decided that air would be nice; especially because they had returned from Baskerville a week ago and his dreams had been filled with memories of Afghanistan - it was as though the drug had induced the memories to resurface.

After strolling around the city for an hour, he ended up visiting his girlfriend (whom Sherlock had warned him had an affair approximately a year ago, but John ignored him) until a bit before dinner. They went out to lunch in the park together before returning to her flat. John would have liked to stay with her for dinner, but remembered Sherlock was alone at the flat and would probably only eat a yogurt and nuts (or something equally absurd) for dinner if John didn't come with takeaway. He left her flat, picked up takeaway, and returned to Baker Street.

Sherlock was leaning over his laptop when John walked in.

"Thank goodness," the detective said as John set the food on the counter. "I was nearly ready to turn on the television in boredom."

"I didn't know I was interesting to hang out with," John commented, slightly flattered by Sherlock admitting, in a way, that John made the flat less boring. He paused to think for a moment. "Everyone else is dull and boring to you, Sherlock. How come I'm not? Just out of curiosity."

Sherlock slid off of the couch and stepped nonchalantly on top of the coffee table with his knife before stabbing a torn piece from the newspaper in the mantle. He turned to John with an air of superiority. "I suppose because you frequently have unique if not ridiculous ideas for resolutions to cases, and although they are always incorrect, it helps to stimulate my intellect. No offense to your intelligence, of course. Furthermore, you do provide to me useful medical knowledge at times."

"Oh," John said thoughtfully. "I can't decide if you just insulted or complimented me."

"Complimented," Sherlock confirmed.

* * *

There was a huge explosion to John's left. He sprinted with his best friend away, and they halted at the sound of gunfire. A flash of blood and his friend was on the ground -

Then, John was with a group of civilians who were all terrified, and he was trying to reassure them as bombs shook the earth and the sounds of cries and screams were muffled by more gunfire -

Now he was back in the hot sun, and his shoulder was being ripped open by a bullet. John could feel its heat stabbing at his skin and he could feel wet blood under his fingers -

Next, he was cradling a boy's head - a boy he had never met - who was breathing with shuddering gasps, hanging on as long as possible. He couldn't have been older than eleven, but John could see the light leaving his eyes as his body gave up -

And he woke up. John could feel his pulse racing and steadied himself, rubbing his hands over his face. He stumbled downstairs for water, passing Sherlock who was reading in his armchair.

"Aren't - aren't you going to bed soon?" John asked Sherlock, who looked exhausted. "It's almost one in the morning."

"I know. I'm… going to work on something," Sherlock said vaguely, waving his hand. John contemplated him for a moment, then returned to his bedroom, hoping dearly that his dreams wouldn't bring him back to Afghanistan.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he cared. It was obvious that John was having nightmares. They had returned from Baskerville only a week ago, not to mention John was constantly shifting in his bed (it kept squeaking) and he woke up to get water. John never woke up for water.

Though the detective kept telling himself that John could deal with it, he couldn't help but think it was a perfect excuse to try a new experiment while helping his friend. He had promised no more drugging John, so of course he would ask first.

He set to work, using a variety of plants and substances that he had collected over the years, ranging from water to magnesium to rosary peas. Many of the components were lethal by themselves, but once Sherlock had experimented with their insides and cleaned them out completely, their genetics served perfectly for his creation.

By dawn he had finished and had a thick liquid. It was bright red and smelled surprisingly nice, like flowers. John came downstairs two hours later. Sherlock offered him the cup.

"Good morning, John," he said pleasantly. "I made this for you. It's a drink I made myself, and it should inhibit nightmares and ease stress."

John sighed, apparently thinking in exasperation that somehow Sherlock knew he was having nightmares and stress from Afghanistan. He eyed the cup warily.

"How do I know you didn't poison this? Or drug it?" he asked, taking the cup and swirling it a bit. The floral scent drifted up.

"I didn't do either," Sherlock said seriously. "I spent the entire night working on it, John. It should eradicate your nightmares completely. I promise, John. Just try it - drink the whole thing - and if I'm lying, you can…"

"Kill you?" John suggested, but hesitantly took a sip before drinking the rest. He shuddered. "It smells nice, but tastes like fish."

"Let me know if it works," Sherlock said enthusiastically. "It had the most fascinating combination of chemicals and substances to create it."

"Yeah. Thanks, Sherlock," John said.

* * *

John woke up the next morning feeling strangely relaxed and content. That wasn't usual. Even better, he realized he hadn't had any nightmares at all. For a moment, he lay in bed perplexed, wondering why there was a sudden change, when he remembered what Sherlock had made for him previously. It had worked. He got out of bed and went downstairs to let his friend know it had worked. He knew Sherlock would be immensely pleased at the success of his concoction.

"Sherlock?" he called, ambling into the kitchen. Sherlock didn't appear to be in the flat. John assumed he was at Bart's or somewhere similar, until he heard Sherlock's bedroom door open.

"You slept in," John said, surprised. "By the way, your concoction worked!"

"Did it?" Sherlock asked, pulling his dressing gown around himself tightly. His voice was raspy. He coughed rather violently after speaking.

"Caught a cold?" John noted. "There's medicine in the cabinet."

Sherlock looked confused. "I rarely get sick," he said, stumbling over to the cabinet.

"It's part of being human, mate," John said sympathetically. "All normal people get colds a few times a year." He took a closer look at his flatmate. "You're shivering," he observed. "Fever?"

"I don't _know. You're_ the doctor," Sherlock said with contempt in his voice; clearly, the comment about being human had irritated him.

"Right, well, I'm taking your temperature," John said, going to his medical kit and pulling out his thermometer. "Keep this under your tongue," he directed. Sherlock obeyed rather reluctantly, shooting John an expression of protest.

A minute later John's theory was confirmed.

"38.4," he informed Sherlock, who was now swaying slightly. "Okay, go sit down." Sherlock didn't move.

"I want to start a new experiment," he said stubbornly. "And I don't want medicine, either."

John sighed. "I'll let you work on your experiment if you take the medicine."

"Fine," Sherlock grouched, throwing himself onto the stool by his microscope and turning it on. John took medicine out of the cupboard and handed it to Sherlock, who popped it in his mouth and swallowed it with water.

A half an hour later, the detective's eyes were drooping.

"Sherlock, you look knackered," John said. "Maybe you should lay down?"

"No!" Sherlock said forcefully. "I never succumb to my transport. Exhaustion won't slow me down." But it was clear that it was. Even Sherlock looked slightly surprised when his forehead bumped against the microscope.

"John," he said suspiciously. "What medicine did you give me? Because you know that I detest any medication that will slow my transport down, thus limiting my brain functioning by _napping_."

John threw his hands in the air. "Fine. I gave you medicine that would make you tired. I just want you to lay down and sleep, alright? You'll get better faster if you do!"

Sherlock glared at him. "I can't believe you, John," he said. "You… you know that I despise that…" His speech was slurred.

"Go to bed," John suggested, but the next moment Sherlock had fallen asleep against the microscope. John cursed his stubborn attitude and dragged him over to the couch as best as possible.

* * *

John was startled to hear Sherlock come flying off of the couch an hour later. Not actually flying, of course, but more so jumping upwards extremely suddenly.

"What're you doing?!" John demanded, surprised.

"John, I'm not sick!" Sherlock said excitedly. "I determined the cause of this sudden illness!"

"How? You were asleep!"

"No, I wasn't. I just wanted you to stop talking because I needed to think and you were distracting."

"So you let me drag you over to the couch?" John asked, outraged.

"Yes. But I've determined that my illness is from rosary pea inhalation!"

John stared at him. "Come on, Sherlock."

"What? I just told you! It's the truth!"

"No. Just speak in English for once! It's very annoying, you know, when you act like I know something that I actually don't! I've told you this before."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll start from the beginning. When I was making your concoction that would help your nightmares, I used rosary peas. It was one of the ingredients. They're particularly lethal - but of course I made sure they were safe in the final concoction - but they're poisonous when they're inhaled. The symptoms of rosary peas include a fever and coughing, John, so I'm not sick! I'm poisoned!" Sherlock said all of this with an air of triumph.

John shook his head. "You're bloody kidding me, right? Why do you even sound excited about this?"

"Because I'm not sick!"

"Well, do you need a hospital?" John asked. "You're not going to have a seizure - or, or, die or anything, are you?"

"I suppose death is a possibility," Sherlock said, his words catching at the end and sending him into a fit of coughing.

"Okay. We're going to the hospital," John decided. "Put your coat on. And no, don't even try. We _are_ going."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but only another cough came out. This time, when he took a breath after, only a rattling wheeze came. The detective's eyes widened in panic.

"Let's go!" John yelled, pulling them outside and hailing a cab. Sherlock's face was turning blue as they rode in the cab.

"You bloody idiot!" John yelled. "Sherlock, can you breathe? _Can you breathe_?"

To which Sherlock only stared at him, wide-eyed. John might have tried to do CPR on him, but they had arrived at the hospital, so he decided the best course of action was to get him in as soon as possible.

Sherlock had fallen unconscious. John swore and pulled him out, where paramedics were waiting (John had let them know they were on their way). They immediately pulled his thin frame onto the stretcher they had ready, rushing him inside. John sat down in the waiting room with his head in his hands.

If Sherlock wasn't more careful, he could _die_. He almost did. Once John was allowed into Sherlock's room, he sat there and resumed his same position, waiting for his friend to wake up. It took six hours.

"John?" Sherlock croaked finally.

"You bloody git," John said. "You _bloody git_."

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said, an expression of fear on his face. "I did not intend to… alarm you."

John nearly laughed. "It's alright, mate. You just gave me a bloody scare. You could barely breathe on the way here, in the cab. I should've called an ambulance from the flat. You almost died." The end of his sentence caught in his voice.

"I apologise, John, for causing more stress by making that with the rosary peas than eliminating stress," Sherlock said flatly. "Are you… angry with me?" He was studying John's face, as though trying to deduce whether John was mad at him.

"Of course not. Just… be more careful with the chemicals, right? I don't want you dying on me," John said, smiling.

"I'll try, John, but you do realize that I work with both dangerous chemicals and criminals nearly every day?" Sherlock reminded him.

"Not this week, until your ban has been lifted," John said, savoring the disgruntled expression that crossed Sherlock's face when he mentioned Lestrade's ban.

 **Wow! Two stories in one day!**

 **I'm hoping to update this story once more before I go camping on Sunday, most likely Sunday morning. I'll be returning 7/23, so I won't be able to update for a week :( but if I miraculously have wifi, I'll try to hammer out a story!**

 **Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review and favorite/follow, I'd be so grateful! :) Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/experiment gone wrong, and I'll try to write your suggestion! Thanks again to Starcross123 who left this idea in a review!**


	20. Broken Bone - John

**Summary: On a trip to a mountain range to capture a large group of criminals, Sherlock and John come into a bit of trouble when John can't jump the length of a small chasm and breaks several bones.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologise in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks to DisappearingKangaroo, who gave me this idea in a review! :)**

* * *

"I hope you know where you're going," John said to Sherlock, who was trekking ahead of him by several paces. "I know you said that you're sure - but honestly! We're in the middle of _nowhere_!"

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock said, pulling his coat collar up. "I know that we're within a mile of the poisoners' base. All we have to do is look for a relatively large hideout, which will most likely be in the inconspicuous shape of a log cabin."

They were searching for a hideout and then planning on texting Lestrade their location for him to arrive and arrest the criminals. Lestrade was unaware of Sherlock's plan, but Sherlock asserted that they would most likely not get hurt, because the criminals they were dealing with appeared to lack weapons, and it wasn't as though they were infiltrating the base, either. The criminals had many poisons, however, because the group had already killed three small towns by poisoning the water supply. The case fascinated Sherlock because he had never seen anything like it, even though it was rather simple to solve.

Unfortunately, the hideout was quite in the middle of nowhere, and on the mountaintops, too. Sherlock and John had to take a long hike just to get to the tops of the mountain range, and now they were wandering blindly on top in search of a hideout. It was rocky; large boulders stacked upon one another made the journey more difficult because it required a substantial amount of climbing.

To John's relief, Sherlock suddenly said triumphantly, "There's the hideout, John!" John followed his friend's gaze to where there was a small cabin in the distance, far away.

"We have to get closer," Sherlock said. "It's still a solid two miles away, I'd say. Lestrade will have to infiltrate with haste, so if we can give him the most accurate coordinates possible, that would be best." He said this in a flat voice, and John realized that the detective was already disappointed that the only mystery left in this case was over. "Let's get at least within… a hundred and twenty metres of the hideout."

John agreed and they took off towards the cabin that was glowing in the distance. He wasn't quite sure how Sherlock knew that this was the hideout, but trusted him, so struggled over the large boulders to follow.

However, they came to a large gap between two parts of the mountain. It was as though the rock had simply split into two and drifted metres apart, leaving a dark, deep chasm in the middle.

"Geez," John groaned. "How long do you think it'll take to walk around this?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Walk around? John, it'd waste _time_ to walk around - at least twenty minutes! We jump it," he said matter-of-factly.

"Jump it?" John asked, his voice an octave higher than usual. "We can't jump that!"

Sherlock frowned. "It's a bit more than four metres, I'd say. High schoolers doing long jump can jump that far."

"Not all of them!"

"Well, many can. John! Don't be slow! Here, I'll go first." The detective measured up the chasm before taking a step back, running forward, and leaping over it. His coat sailed behind him dramatically and John was reminded forcibly of a superhero's cape.

"Alright, John. Don't be slow. It's bothersome," Sherlock said from other side of the chasm, a scowl on his face now. "I hardly tolerate you being slow mentally."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said. "I'm coming." He sized up the chasm. It looked awfully far and deep.

"If you were coming, you wouldn't be immobile," intoned Sherlock's voice.

John gritted his teeth and sprinted forward. As soon as he leaped off of the edge of the cliff, he knew that it wasn't going to be enough - there was a moment when he was in the air, both cursing Sherlock's long legs and thinking _Ahhhhhhhh!_ before he collided painfully with the other side of the rock on the edge of chasm, scrabbling at the rock for something to grab onto. There wasn't anything, and as though in slow motion, he could feel himself dropping like a stone into the chasm.

He landed with a _crack_. That wasn't good. Fortunately, he he hadn't hit his head - that was most important.

Then - he swore - pain stabbed at his legs. It was like a cannon firing at a constant rate, spreading bullets through every ligament of his legs, his right in particular.

John looked up; the top of the chasm was about ten feet up. His legs were squished in between where the rock on either side of the chasm came together; it had stopped his fall. That also meant that he had landed on the rock in a near vertical position and his legs were bleeding profusely from scraping the rocks severely as he stopped. Blinding, sharp pain stabbed at his right leg again, and he passed out.

"John!" came Sherlock's voice. "Are you alright!?" The detective's voice was on the verge of panic. John opened his eyes; he must have passed out only for thirty seconds.

"JOHN!" Sherlock was yelling into the chasm.

John looked up to see Sherlock's curly head peering down into the chasm. He meant to reassure his friend but all that came out was "Ow."

"John!" Sherlock repeated, slightly calmer this time. "Did you faint?"

"That tends to happen with lots of pain."

"You're hurt!?" came the panicked response.

"I fell into a bloody chasm!" John exploded. "You and your - your _stupid_ \- long legs!" He paused for a moment, considering Sherlock's frantic state. "Sorry, mate. Just -" he winced again - "Just hurting a bit. It's not your fault."

Sherlock's voice was more steady this time. "Alright - can you hoist yourself out of the two rocks that you're stuck between?" He had already switched his emotions off like they were a faucet, John noted, but didn't dwell on it for too long because his legs were in so much pain. He placed his hands on the rock and heaved upward, crying out immediately and leaning back into his original position.

"Um, no," he said, breathing heavily. "I've broken my right leg, I think. Ah - it hurts, it hurts a lot!" He struggled to not let his eyes dampen - he was a soldier, after all, and he couldn't let something as common as broken bones make him cry. But this _hurt._ A lot.

"I've already contacted Lestrade, John," came Sherlock's voice from above. "He'll come with a helicopter and they can pull you out."

"Great," John muttered, unsure if Sherlock could hear him. The thought of Scotland Yard spending their time hoisting him out of a chasm that he couldn't jump was frankly mortifying.

"John, I'm sorry. I'm very sorry," came Sherlock's baritone voice, this time uncertain. "I feel… responsible for your injury. I actually feel horrible, in fact."

"It's not your fault," John said, clutching at his leg and trying to not let out any indications in his voice that he was near tears. It was _just_ a broken leg, he told himself, but that didn't make the pain subside.

"Yes, but… John, I pressured you into trying to jump across!"

John leaned to the left slightly, and it eased the pressure from his right leg. "Yeah, but Sherlock, I'm an adult. You didn't pressure me into anything. I didn't have to agree to it. It's my fault, for a lack of better judgment. Don't blame yourself."

John wasn't sure why he wasn't angry towards Sherlock (after all, despite what he said, Sherlock had been rather rude at the prospect of walking around the chasm), but because the self-proclaimed sociopath was expressing regret and kindness, he had no inclination to be bitter towards him.

* * *

Late the next day, John had been fitted with crutches and was walking out of the hospital with Sherlock, who had accompanied him straight from the helicopter.

"Better than the cane, yeah?" John asked positively as they took the elevator down to the entrance. It had been a blurry and miserable past twenty-four hours, involving x-rays, splints, and extremely painful treatment to his broken bone in his leg. He had found out that the bone had broken through the skin - that was why it had hurt so intensely.

"John, there's a step there," Sherlock warned suddenly, flinging his arm out as though to stop John from tripping over the step.

"Sherlock, I can see the step. I didn't lose my eyesight when I broke my leg," John laughed. "Thanks, though."

Sherlock fidgeted. "If you fall, you'll worsen your leg by quite a bit."

"I won't fall. Sherlock, you can't be this cautious for the entire six weeks that I'll be on the crutches, you know."

"Yes, I can," Sherlock said automatically.

John thought for a moment. "I guess I'll have to miss out on the next several cases for the time being," he said, disappointed.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh, please, John, you're still coming with me. I'll just have you wait on a bench or something while I chase a criminal."

"Thanks," John said sarcastically.

"No problem," Sherlock said. "I'd be lost without my Boswell."

 **Yay for cheesy endings! So this will be my last story until 7/23 unless I somehow get a free hour with wifi while camping. Which probably won't happen! But I have an amazing plotline coming up next, so stay tuned! Don't forget to leave a review and favorite/follow! Also, I'd be grateful for suggestions for an injury/experiment/illness for either Sherlock or John. Thanks for reading, and again thanks to DisappearingKangaroo for this idea!**


	21. Hypovolemic Shock - John

**Summary: Sherlock and John encounter a dangerous vampire-like murderer at a dress party.**

 **Warnings: Brief mention of rape. There are some really nasty descriptions of blood drinking, so if you're not into that graphic stuff, you might want to skip that paragraph :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I'm American and I've never been to London, so I try to keep it as British as possible, but I apologize in advance for all of the American tendencies that might be in the writing.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 who brought this idea to me!**

 **Also, should I switch to a first person writing perspective (both John's and Sherlock's, I would switch it up)? Or should I keep it third person? Please let me know in a review! Thanks!**

* * *

"I never thought that Sherlock Holmes would willingly go to a party," John remarked as Sherlock came out of his bedroom decked out in his best suit. His hair was slicked back with gel and John had to keep from laughing at his friend, who looked strange without his mop of curls.

"For the last time, John, I'm not attending the party for my personal amusement," Sherlock retorted, looked scandalized at the very prospect of attending a party for "fun".

A recent chain of serial killings had piqued Sherlock's interest; they were in the fashion of a vampire, it seemed - the victim would be found quite dead, drained of blood. The crime scenes were extremely gruesome (to Sherlock's delight); the poor victim was pale and stained with their own blood.

They were close to solving the mystery. Sherlock had deduced somehow - John wasn't quite sure how he had figured this out, but he trusted his friend - that the killer (whoever it was, they weren't sure) would be attending a dress party that evening. Ironically, it was a vampire theme, but John supposed that the vampire-like murderer wouldn't be attending the party if he didn't kill by draining the victim's blood. He chalked it up to being some sort of twisted inside joke.

Thus, Sherlock and John were attending the vampire themed party. It was an annual event outside of London, hosted by a rich couple that put it on every year at their mansion. Sherlock had managed to snag two invitations. Guests were expected to dress like vampires, but according to Sherlock, they wouldn't be dressing with fangs and capes - it would be more similar to a Twilight vampire. They'd dress sharp, maybe put on a bit of paling makeup, and style their hair nicely. The women would wear red lipstick; rather, there weren't dorky party props.

Sherlock scowled at his reflection.

"If this weren't for a case, I would detest the fact that we're going to be _socializing_ tonight," he assured John. He gave him a double look. "I don't think I've ever seen you in something that's not a jumper," he noted, smirking slightly.

"Ha, ha," John said sarcastically. "I feel bloody ridiculous, though,". He was wearing his only nice button-up, which was white, and black pants. He hadn't gelled back his hair like Sherlock but just combed it backwards. However, as they climbed into the cab to make their way to the vampire-themed party, he wished that he had made more of an effort to look vampire-y. Next to Sherlock, he felt stupid (not that that was anything new). Sherlock seemed to have been made to dress up like a vampire - his sharp features, pale skin, dark hair, and skinny, tall figure was akin to how John imagined a vampire appearing.

They rode out of the city and past the suburbs. The sun was setting as they rode so that the cab was bathed in an orange glow. The blinding sunbeams inhibited any sort of view out of the west side of the vehicle. The sky turned from pale to vibrant orange then to a purple as the world darkened with night.

"Remember, John," Sherlock murmured as they turned up onto a rural hill. "The killer could be anyone, and there will be at least a hundred and fifty guests - this is a huge house and party. I'll be narrowing down my suspects, but obviously it will be more difficult to deduce people because everyone will be in costume. Likely the killer will pick a new victim tonight since this is an inside joke to him, and if he follows his usual schedule, he's due for another murder tonight."

"I know. Sherlock, be careful, too - I don't want you to be his victim," John said. Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

* * *

The party was more elaborate than John could've thought possible. Lanterns hung everywhere, the lights were dimmed, fake blood stains decorated the floors, and there was even a small orchestra with a few violinists playing eerie music. At least a hundred people were already in the mansion when Sherlock and John arrived, so they slipped into the party hardly noticed.

"Look at him," Sherlock muttered in a low voice.

"Did you find the killer already?" John whispered back, astounded at his friend's prowess.

"What? No, of course not. Look at the violinist on the far right. He scarcely knows how to do vibrato," Sherlock said scathingly. "I wish I had brought my violin."

Just then, an older woman approached them.

"I don't think I've ever seen you here before," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Sarah. My husband is on the other end of the house, I'm afraid, but I'll be sure to introduce you to him later."  
John shook her hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm John, and this is my friend Scott."

Sherlock had already told John that he wanted to remain anonymous, so they had decided to call him "Scott" for the evening.

Sherlock smiled warmly at the woman to play his part as just another guest at the party. "So lovely to meet you. We're friends of Teddy's. I was so glad to be invited, and this party is absolutely brilliant!"

John couldn't help but marvel at how Sherlock could switch his personality in an instant to act a role for a case. Teddy was the nephew of the hosts that Sherlock had befriended short-term in order to receive invitations.

"Well, nice to meet you, Scott and John," Sarah said happily. "I'll be moving around to greet other guests. By the way, Scott, your costume is wonderful - I wouldn't be surprised if you were an actual vampire!" She guffawed unnecessarily loudly, patting "Scott" on the shoulder, then moved on. The second that she had turned away, Sherlock's smile vanished off of his face.

"Alright, John, you start in the sitting room. Tell me if anyone is suspiciously quiet, twitchy, aggressive, _anything_ out of the ordinary. I'm going to start in the living room. We'll meet back here in ten minutes." He dashed off, leaving John in the entry area. John watched him, open-mouthed - _how was he supposed to determine who was suspicious in the sitting room with only ten minutes?_ \- before obeying his flatmate's orders and making his way over.

Fortunately, the sitting room only had about ten people in it. John doubtfully tried to apply Sherlock's methods and deduce them, but when his mind came with absolutely nothing, he resorted to his gut feeling and trying to read their body language. He dearly hoped that he could return to Sherlock with some sort of helpful observation, but ten minutes had passed and no one seemed out of the ordinary, so he returned to the entryway where Sherlock was waiting.

"Nothing?" Sherlock guessed. "I didn't see anything suspicious either. However, the dining room remains, and it's massive. There's an absurd amount of food in there so I suspect that's where most of the people will be."  
John underestimated Sherlock's use of the term "massive" until he entered the dining room. He realized that they couldn't even quite call it a dining room; rather, it was a great hall with buffets and nearly a hundred people milling about.

"You take the right side and I'll take the left. We'll meet in thirty minutes this time," Sherlock commanded, and was about to whirl around to begin his search for the vampire-like killer when John stopped him.

"Hang on! Do we have to split up?" he asked. "I mean, we've got all night. Why don't we just do it together?"

Sherlock frowned. "John… I sincerely deplore parties. The sooner I can leave here, the better." He really did have a pained expression, as though the drunken laughter and amicable gossip surrounding him were physically hurting him. John conceded.

"Alright," he grumbled. "But I think we're still going to be here for a while!" But he was talking to no one; Sherlock had already disappeared into the crowd.

 _No one_ seemed out of the ordinary. Of course, there were stranger people there, but no one fit the murderer persona that John had unfortunately grown inclined to recognize after having lived with Sherlock for a long time.

"Never seen you here before," a voice said behind John. He turned. A woman who looked extremely similar to Sarah, the host, was grinning up at him. She looked to be around his age, give or take three years.

"Yeah, this is my first time," John said. "Are you… related to Sarah?" Their mannerisms and facial features were strikingly alike.

"Yeah, I'm Olivia, her daughter."

"John," John said, smiling at her. "Your costume looks good."

Olivia laughed. "Oh, geez, but thanks, though. My costume is nearly twenty years old. I've stopped bothering to get a new one each year because my parents have been doing this for so long. It's a bit strange, you know? But I don't mind; they always turn out quite good." She had dark hair that was straight and pinned tightly to her head. Her eyes were bright green and she had pale makeup on with, as Sherlock had predicted, red lipstick.

"Are there usually this many guests?" John asked, gesturing at the vast crowd of people all dressed like vampires. "I mean, there's got to be… over a hundred people here."

"There's about a hundred and twenty in just this dining hall alone and around two hundred guests total," Olivia confirmed. "It gets busier every year. My brother - he comes, to appease my parents, but then resorts to the upstairs after thirty minutes. He can't stand being around people for this long."

"Yeah? Well, he'd get on great with my friend, Sher - Scott," John said. "He's the world's most reclusive man, I'd say."

"I don't know, you haven't met my brother," Olivia laughed, twirling her bracelet around her fingers.

"Would you like to get a drink together sometime?" John asked suddenly, thinking to himself that he was the absolute worst person at flirting in the world. However, Olivia smiled. "I'd love to!" She peered over at the buffet table. "Let's get one now!"

John was startled. "Oh - yeah, okay!" he said enthusiastically (hopefully not too enthusiastically), making a mental note to continue watching the other guests so as to not let Sherlock down. They each got a glass of wine and drank it with lively conversation. Once they were done, they refilled their drinks, then Olivia wrinkled her nose. "It's awfully loud in here - want to move somewhere quieter?" she asked.

Any other day John would have denied leaving the dining hall for two reasons. One, he wanted to spend more time with a woman he just met before going somewhere "quieter" with her, and two, he didn't want to leave Sherlock to find the murderer himself. But Olivia was already dragging him away, and it seemed too public of a place to refuse, so he followed along.

Oh, well.

If she wanted to do anything more than kiss him, he would certainly refuse, and he supposed that he could get another look at the guests aside from the dining hall to check for anyone suspicious. He fired off a text to Sherlock letting him know that he was moving on to a different section of the house.

Olivia was leading him towards the stairwell. John backpedaled. "Let's stay in the living room?" he suggested.

Olivia pouted. "Come on, John, it's too _noisy_ in there!"

"I thought your brother was the one that didn't like noise?" John joked, seriously regretting his decision to talk to Olivia. "But, you know, my friend - the introvert, mind you - is still in the dining hall, and I probably shouldn't leave him alone back there. So, maybe we could head back there…" His voice trailed off.

"You really just have to be difficult, don't you?" Olivia sighed, and quick as a flash, she was at his side, her arm around John.

John tugged his arm away, saying, "Look, let's just…" when the needle pierced his neck.

A bit not good.

He clawed at where the syringe had gone into him, but by the time he had, she had already retracted the needle. His thoughts ran wild and, panicking, he couldn't seem to form a decent plan - should he attack her? Call Sherlock? Call Lestrade? Run?

"Oh, stop freaking out," Olivia said, pulling him into a darkened allway where the sounds of the other guests were faded out. "I won't rape you, I promise."

John shoved her away, and she stumbled backwards, but he could already tell that it was with less vigor than with what he could usually manage. Whatever she had injected him with was a strong sedative. Darkness crept into the edges of his eyes, and he kicked Olivia this time, square in the chest, and pulled out his phone. He was typing out a message to Sherlock when Olivia had slapped the phone out of his hands.

Dang. His reaction time was definitely slower.

A heavy wave of exhaustion washed over him, but he fought it along with the blackness creeping into his vision and the dizziness that was overcoming him. He realized he was swaying on his feet. Olivia seemed to be waiting for him to succumb to the drug. Reason came back to his mind and he remembered one of his loose plans. Run.

He turned on his heel and tried to take off down the hallway, but had only managed a few steps when nausea forced him to stop and grip the wall… his legs buckled and he was barely even aware that he was crumpled onto the floor…

"Sherlock!" he tried to yell, but the drug was too strong, and he passed out.

* * *

John woke up later, but had absolutely no idea of how much later. Several bad realizations occurred to him as his location came into focus.

He was in a small room that seemed to be upstairs in the mansion.

He was tied down and couldn't move his arms or legs.

He was locked in.

He was accompanied by Olivia and a man that looked strangely like her. John remembered her speaking about her introverted brother. Well, it seemed like he had me him.

"He's awake. Let's start," the man said.

"Alright. You want to do it or do you want me to?" Olivia asked, pondering John.

"You. You found him," the man responded.

"Hang on!" John said. His speech was slurred from the drug. "Let's… be reasonable about this… whatever's happening."

That was when the fifth realization came in.

He was in a room that had an abundance of blood stains, but they looked different compared to the fake ones that were downstairs. These looked real. The room was full of plastic bags, syringes, and straws, and there wasn't a lack of sharp objects, either, scalpels included.

"You're the vampire murderers," John said. How could he have been so stupid? Olivia and her brother were probably the most suspicious people he encountered at the party, yet he hadn't even stopped to consider that it might be them - the children of the vampire fanatics. How could he be so _stupid_?

"I'll explain to the poor man quickly," Olivia allowed. "Alright, John. We're practically what you could call a vampire. I mean, we're human, whatever. But we grew up with parents who love vampires, and when we were kids, we tried drinking blood. Just for fun, you know? But it tasted so _good_. It was exhilarating to drink it. We've moved around the country to not arise suspicion - people like your friend Sherlock Holmes tend to notice a trend of people dead with their blood almost all gone - but have been drinking blood for what, thirty plus years?" Olivia looked at her brother, who nodded. "Sorry John. You're our next beverage." And without further ado she plunged the scalpel into his chest.

John could feel himself screaming but only barely because the horrifying pain in his chest trumped all other senses. He could feel the scalpel toying around in his chest and he vomited, but his legs and arms were tied, and he couldn't move - instead he could only watch, as Olivia inserted a small straw into the stab wound, which had been cut expertly and wasn't bleeding profusely.

"You first," the brother said, and Olivia put her mouth to the straw and sucked in. John choked on more vomit in his mouth as the thick, dark blood slowly made its way up the straw and Olivia drank it. He could feel the straw inside of him, coming out of his skin like a stem. The blood was beginning to spill out a bit, and it was sticky and metallic; it took all of his willpower not to pass out, and his thoughts wouldn't stop - everything was a run-on sentence in his mind - because he was screaming, whether for pain or for Sherlock's help, he wasn't sure, but then the brother cut open another section on his abdomen.

The second scalpel wound was much messier; he could feel it. Blood gushed out of this one.

 _Stay awake_ , he told himself, shutting his eyes to block out the siblings that were bent over him, sucking his blood through the straws.

 _Stay awake._

 _Stay awake._

His eyes were tightly shut still when there was a sudden crashing sound. His eyes flew open, quickly analyzing how much blood he had lost (too much) to see Sherlock's blur knocking out the siblings and rapidly dialing a number on his phone.

"Sherlock?" John croaked, pressing his hand over the messier wound that the brother had made. "I think - I think I'm hurt."

"You're okay," Sherlock said, and his baritone voice almost convinced John until he focused on the blood that was all over him and the fact that Sherlock was trembling as he spoke.

Or was it him that was trembling?  
"Cold," John muttered, forgetting to keep his hands on his wound and now holding himself. "It's… bloody cold in here…" Within an instant Sherlock's suit jacket was around John.

"Lestrade is on his way," Sherlock said, taking his tie off and tying it around John, who had a sharp intake of breath as the cloth was fastened tightly around his worse wound. "John! Stay awake!"  
John hadn't even realized that his eyes were shut until Sherlock was slapping his face.

"Ouch," he slurred. "Ow - this really hurts. Sherlock, this hurts."

He tried to indicate to his wound to show Sherlock where it was hurting, but Sherlock kept his hand down.

"Stay still. The paramedics are on their way," Sherlock said, and John struggled to stay awake - the doctor inside of him was telling him to stay awake - but then he thought of the siblings that were drinking his blood and he passed out, whether because of disgust, the blood loss, or both, he couldn't remember.

* * *

"That is proof that we are never attending parties again unless for a particular intriguing case," Sherlock monotoned as they climbed the stairs up Baker Street. John contemplated his friend as they regained their seats in their armchairs, then got up and made tea for them. The flat was silent; Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister.

"Hey, I never really… thanked you properly, in the hospital," John said. "Thanks, mate. For saving my life. I mean, if you hadn't come, I'd be dead now."

"Of course, John," Sherlock said diplomatically. "I wouldn't let my blogger perish."

"It's quiet in here," John noted. There was a pause where the silence became even more pronounced and heavy before Sherlock leaned over and swept his violin underneath his chin.

"Any requests?" Sherlock asked, his bow poised above the instrument. John blinked in surprise - Sherlock never asked what John wanted him to play.

"How about Tchaikovsky?" John asked, and Sherlock obliged immediately, playing a tune that John recognized as something from the Nutcracker, although he wasn't sure what.

"Thanks, mate," he said, leaning back in his chair, and falling asleep.

 **Okay, first I have to thank Starcross123 again because I think that was my favorite plot I've ever written!**

 **I would be so grateful if anyone could leave a review letting me know if I should do first person (for Sherlock or John, it would vary) or stick with third person like I usually do! Reviews suggesting an accident / illness / injury are also very very welcome!  
Thank you so much for reading!**


	22. Panic - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock believes John to be dead and gets hurt.**

 **Warnings: A bit of angst.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **Thanks to TheMamaBear for leaving this suggestion in a review for me! :)**

 **I tried doing first person for John this time. If I like it I'll keep doing it; if not, then I'll go back to third person. Who knows!**

 **This is also a bit unrealistic because I'm sure that criminals wouldn't act like how I wrote them in this story, but whatever, because it allowed me to carry my plot.**

* * *

There are some days when I marvel at Sherlock Holmes's intellect and wonder to myself how I was ever so lucky to have earned his friendship, and how he was such an intriguingly interesting flatmate.

Most days, however, I couldn't understand why I was still living with a man who disregarded social conduct, cared more about his scientific experiments than his own well-being, played the violin in the depth of night, and, to be frank, made me look rather stupid next to him.

It was one of the days where I was doing an errand that I didn't necessarily have to be doing, but I was anyway because I had to get out of the flat for a bit. Sherlock had decided that it would be fascinating to research the effect of constant music on the mind, so he had been playing different genres of music incessantly throughout the flat, without any break at all. It was fine for the first twenty-four hours, I suppose, but after that the steady sound of music began to drive me insane. Sherlock refused to stop the experiment, so instead I left to go to the bank.

The bank was a bit busy which didn't improve my mood much. The line lasted twenty minutes. I tried to pass the time by applying my friend's methods and deducing the people around me to absolutely no avail. It was a bit frustrating because all I could think to do was look to see if they were married or not by their left ring finger, let alone all of the other small deductions Sherlock could have made, such as them playing the piano, or having grown up in the south, or whether they drove or walked to work.

The sudden cock of a gun interrupted my thoughts and my heart leapt from military instinct. My hand automatically went for my gun, which I quickly realized I did not have with me - obviously I wasn't going to just carry my gun around as I did errands.

Why is it, after I started living with Sherlock Holmes, that I'm thrust into dangerous situations at least once every two weeks?

"Nobody move! If I see anyone take out their phone, try running, or even twitch a muscle, I swear I will shoot you," the man with the gun threatened. He had a beard and sleeve tattoos going up his arms. Everyone in the bank - there must have been around twenty people - froze.

Two other men suddenly stepped out of the crowd and joined the bearded man, pulling out guns of their own. My stomach plummeted; it wasn't just the bearded man. The sight of the three men triggered something in my memory. What had Sherlock said, just yesterday? I racked my brains, trying to remember, because he had mentioned three criminals. One of them, whose last name was Johnson, had a beard. I can't remember what crimes the men had committed, because I wasn't entirely focused when Sherlock had been telling me. Now I wish I had been paying better attention.

The leader and bearded one, Johnson, crept backwards, locking the doors, then the other two men pulled the shades. Still, no one else in the bank dared to move a muscle; I stole a glance to my left to see that the woman next to me had tears streaming down her face.

"If no one interferes," Johnson said slowly, "We won't hurt you. If anyone attempts to sabotage us, then you will all have bullets in your heads. You," he said, pointing at the worker behind the counter, "Give me all of the money in this bank. _Now."_

The man nodded, dazed, and hurried into the back. I watched him disappear around the corner, his hand slipping into his pocket and pulling out his phone as he rounded the bend. I was struck by the thought of the man phoning the police and I dearly hoped that he wouldn't, or Johnson might shoot us. I wouldn't put it past him - he was holding the gun too confidently for it to be a foreign object to him.

One minute later the worker has returned with a set of keys.

"Here," he said shakily, handing the keys to the men. "These will access all of the money." Johnson snatched the keys and threw them to one of his men.

"You get the money, and we'll stand guard," he directed.

I must admit, as terrifying as it is to be in the presence of potential murderers, I feel slightly more at ease than I should. Usually, I'm a target, because the criminal knows me as Sherlock Holmes's blogger. However, in this scenario, I don't seem to be of any particular interest to the robbers, and knowing that they don't have some sort of Moriarty-like plan to hurt me in order to get to Sherlock is a relief.

Of course, there's the possibility that I could still be hurt in this situation, but I can't shake the feeling of positivity knowing I'm not their focus.

Johnson was halfway through his theft when the sudden flashing of red and blue lights interrupted him through the shades of the bank.

Oh, no.

The bank worker had called 999 while he had run to get the keys. That's not good. Now, if Johnson is anything like the criminals Sherlock has caught, he's going to turn this into a serious hostage situation.

"Police! Put your weapons on the floor and no one move!" comes the voice of Lestrade. Somehow, it's strangely comforting, knowing that Lestrade and the team is out there.

"I swear, if anyone tries to get in here, I will shoot these hostages dead," Johnson warned, but his hand quivered as he spoke. "I'm warning you!"  
Yes, there was certainly doubt in his voice. Maybe there was a small sliver of hope - if he didn't have the nerve to shoot us.

My heart leapt into my throat when Johnson pointed at me. "You! What's your name?"

My answer came out in a stammer. "J-John Watson," I said. Dang. I shouldn't be this afraid. I'm supposed to be a soldier, yet I can't help the absolute terror that is flowing through my veins right now.

Suddenly, Johnson shot his gun. Everyone in the room flinched and screamed, ducking their heads, and it took me a moment to realize that Johnson had harmlessly shot the gun into the wall. It didn't take an idiot to realize his plan.

"I've just shot John Watson in the head, and I won't hesitate to shoot the rest of them, too! Back off - leave - and I might not harm the others!" Johnson screamed, his voice cracking. There was a dead silence.

I stood stock still. Would Lestrade believe Johnson's bluff? I couldn't be sure. The shades were drawn tightly and there was absolutely no way to see inside of the bank.

Lestrade's voice returned. "Alright. Don't hurt anyone else. Be sensible. Put the gun down. Allow us to tend to the man shot."

I noticed how Lestrade referred to me as "the man" rather than "John Watson" to distance himself from the hostages in order to give Johnson no incentive to shoot anyone else. Well, not that he had shot me.

I hadn't even thought about the consequences of Johnson's lie until my phone was suddenly vibrating in my pocket. And again. And again.

 _Sherlock thought I was shot in the head._

I tried to remain calm. Sherlock's the most logical person I know. He's going to be okay, as soon as he knows that I'm not - the word catches even in my own thoughts - dead.

Thirty minutes went by with little activity from Lestrade and his team, who were clearly trying to figure out what to do. Still no one had spoken in the bank. I could only imagine what was going on outside. A sudden surge of anger boiled through me, and I cleared my throat for warning before speaking.

"Can I speak?" I asked Johnson tentatively, keeping my voice calm and steady. As I expected, Johnson didn't even reach for his gun to shoot me as he had promised anyone who dared speak. Instead, he looked at me, gaping slightly, as though in shock that anyone would dare to speak in a hostage situation.

"I'm not going to try anything, I promise you," I assured him after he simply kept staring at me. "Please be reasonable, mate. You haven't hurt anyone yet. If you let us go, there won't be too many consequences."

I knew I was exaggerating a bit, because there were going to be consequences for robbing a bank and holding people hostage, but it would only get worse if he hurt someone, right?

"Let us go and you won't be held accountable for shooting any of us. Please. Let us go," I reiterated for emphasis.

Johnson's hand shook suddenly.

"I'll go to jail," he whispered, and I was about to try to reason with him (although I was unsure of how I could argue that he wouldn't go to jail, because obviously he would) when I changed my mind. I'm not sure if this was the brightest decision to tell him the truth, but somehow, in the moment, honesty seemed the best way to get through to Johnson.

"You will," I agreed. "But that doesn't mean the end. Jail doesn't mean that you stop living. If you hurt any of us, I can promise you that its guilt on your conscience will be worse than anything that happens in jail. Trust me. I was a soldier, and hurting others is something that you never, ever forget." My voice was dropping lower and lower. "All of us here have families, friends, people we care about. If you hurt us, you're hurting everyone we care about too. And the police are surrounded here anyway, so please, before this escalates, just let us go."  
It was probably the worst speech of my life, including all of the terrible presentations I had delivered in high school.

But somehow, miraculously, Johnson lowered his gun. Sweat was coming off of his face and I was aware that everything he had done that was tough and merciless was all a facade.

"Please forgive me," he whispered, and unlocked the door. There was hesitation in the group, and once Johnson had nodded, everyone flooded out of the doors, not glancing back. I was among them.

However, after I had exited the bank, my legs shaking from adrenaline, searching for Lestrade's face, I saw a figure sprint back into the bank. The figure was tall with a dark coat and curly hair.

Oh, no. Oh, no. No, no, no. That was all that was going through my mind as I found myself running back towards the bank as well, trying to yell, "I'm here, Sherlock!" but the sound of people screaming and sirens completely drowned out my voice.

Sherlock had already tackled Johnson to the floor and had his elbow pressed against his throat. In the moment before I yelled to him again that I was here, I wasn't dead, I hadn't been shot, I was alive, I caught a glimpse of his face. His mouth was curled back in a murderous yell. His face was flushed and sweaty. Most noticeable of all were his red, puffy eyes and cheeks stained with streaks of tears.

But Sherlock Holmes didn't cry. He didn't _have_ emotions. He didn't care. Sherlock wouldn't allow himself to express his feelings if I died; he'd bottle them up and pretend that he was too analytical and superior to succumb to mourning.

Yet the man in front of me was screaming in a fury of despair and anguish.

"Where's John?" Sherlock was choking into Johnson's face, his words raw and ripped with hopelessness. "What did you do?! He's my friend! My friend!"

"Sherlock! I'm here!" I shouted, putting my hands on my friend and pulling him away from Johnson before quickly taking the latter's gun away from him. "Sherlock! I'm alive, he was bluffing!"

There was a moment when Sherlock looked at me in a stunned silence, never looking more vulnerable with wet eyes and streaked cheeks.

"I thought you were dead," he finally said in a small voice, huddled against the wall of the bank, not even watching as Johnson was put into handcuffs. "You… were shot. Lestrade told me. He said there was a gunshot and Johnson said that he had killed John Watson."

"He was lying," John told Sherlock. For once, the detective didn't say something along the lines of, "Obviously, John."

John surveyed his friend. "Let's get back to Baker Street," he decided, taking off his jacket and handing it to Sherlock, who didn't have his coat, having dashed out of his flat presumably faster than he did for the most fascinating of cases. "It's midwinter, you take it."

Lestrade came over, mopping his forehead, and hugged John. "Sorry," he said, pulling away and looking uncomfortable. "I mean… I thought you were dead too. But Sherlock - he's…" his voice trailed off. "Just take care of him tonight?" He leaned in closer to John and whispered, "He was more of a wreck than when I've seen him on the drugs, and that's saying something."

Sherlock wasn't paying any attention to them but staring at the ceiling with a desolate expression.

"I'll give an account of what happened tomorrow," John promised. "Let me get him home." He nodded to Sherlock, who blinked rather rapidly and stood up to hail a cab with John. "It's okay," he said to his friend. "Everything's okay. We can go get takeaway, if you want. It's all okay."  
Sherlock uncurled his hands, which had been clenched into fists. "I know," he said coldly, then he looked at John with a strange expression. "I'm glad to call you my friend, John," he said, his voice soft this time, and he exhaled deeply. "Thank you for… always being there for me. I know I don't thank you enough… so… what I am trying to tell you is… thank you for your friendship." He finished his sentence with a bit of relief; John knew that however eloquent Sherlock was, he struggled putting emotions into context.

"I'm glad I'm friends with you too, mate," he said, keeping it simple; after all, Sherlock wouldn't want to go overboard with the "feelings". But he smiled to himself at knowing the kindness that Sherlock had deep down.

 **I'm not sure if I wrote this too OOC for Sherlock, but it was certainly interesting to write him under the impression that John had died. Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review and favorite/follow, I'd be so grateful! :) Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an injury/illness/experiment gone wrong, and I'll try to write your suggestion!**


	23. Chest Injury - Sherlock

**Summary: Sherlock has blunt force trauma to his chest.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **I've decided to go back to third person… so yeah. If anyone has an opinion about it please let me know in a review! Thanks!**

 **I'm not British, nor have I ever been on a cruise ship, so I apologise for any errors.**

* * *

John was torn between enjoying and detesting their latest case.

So far, it was relatively pleasant because it was necessary for them to join a week-long cruise down the coast. It was a colossal cruise ship with many amenities and luxurious features, including a total of sixteen hottubs and king-sized beds. Sherlock had gotten them two tickets in order to solve their latest case.

On the other hand, that's where John abhorred the case. Their criminal was a bomber that had already killed twenty-two people, and was planning on bombing the ship (at least, according to Mycroft). He was going to escape when they were in port before the bomb detonated and killed an estimated three thousand people.

A bit not good.

Mycroft was the one piloting this case. He had ensured Sherlock that there would be many of his men on the ship should the detective and John run into trouble, and maintained that he was managing and scrutinising the ship carefully. In other words, that meant he had cameras everywhere. It was up to Sherlock to determine who the bomber was (Mycroft was sure that it was one of the first class men, an estimated six feet tall with red hair).

"I don't understand what they're doing," Sherlock proclaimed as they stood near the ship's rails on the top deck. They were quite literally searching the deck for anyone that fit Mycroft's estimation of the bomber's appearance. It was a bit of an "unprofessional" way to go about it, according to Sherlock, but it seemed most efficient thus far.

"They're enjoying themselves. Reenacting," John said, translating the couple's actions that Sherlock, ignorant of social skills, couldn't understand. The couple was at the bow of the ship, clearly doing the scene from the movie _Titanic_. The girl was being held by her boyfriend as she held her arms out wide to the open ocean.

"Yes, but why?" Sherlock insisted. "It's strange."

"You're one to talk, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes. "Nevermind. It's from a movie. I wouldn't expect you to have seen it."

The sunset was ravishing. Vivid orange reflected across the open ocean with hues of carnation pink painting the sparse clouds.

"Well, we shouldn't waste our time here, especially not watching a horrendous couple reenact some movie when they are both actively not interested in the other anymore and each are cheating. The bomber is clearly not on this deck, John, let's move to the back."

John followed the detective loyally without questioning how he knew the couple's interest level when he almost walked right into Sherlock, who had stopped quite suddenly.

"John, there's a six foot tall red-headed man over there," he murmured. "Hmm… clearly first class. He's an artist. Plays the guitar and pool quite often. Smokes. John, this is our bomber."

John's mouth opened slightly. "But - how can you be sure? Just because at the last known place the bomber was at, there was a faint trace of cigarette smoke? Just because someone reported seeing a tattoo of a guitar on his back when he was witnessed at the beach? Sherlock, those witness reports could have been mistaken… you can't be sure that this is our bomber!"

"Balance of probability, John!" Sherlock declared. "We have to get closer. Act natural. Go mingle with a girl or whatever it is that you do." With that, Sherlock unbuttoned the top button of his shirt (John raised his eyebrows because this made him look so un-Sherlock-ish that it was very strange), mussed his hair slightly, took off his dress shoes, and stooped a bit to hide his usually tall and proud posture. He continued to inconspicuously amble over to a lounge chair and take out his phone, scrolling through his email. John couldn't help but admire his friend's acting skills; a minute ago, Sherlock was an asocial, genius detective; now, he appeared to be nothing more than an exhausted father who was stressed about work and was escaping his family for a few moments on the cruise. After an extremely brief, meaningful glance from Sherlock, John remembered that he was supposed to be mingling, so he joined the bar that was to the left and ordered a water (it seemed too impractical to have alcohol on a case).

His phone vibrated in his pocket just then as a text from Sherlock came through.

 **Order a couple of shots. Don't actually drink them. You don't look very natural. You need an excuse to look relaxed. Become friends with someone.**

John sighed. Sherlock was too demanding when he wouldn't even bother to explain his plan. But he conceded, because (much to his dismay) his friend most likely had an elaborate plan ready; if he refused, it would certainly ruin things. He ordered a shot from the bartender, wondering how on earth he was going to be able to empty the shot without consuming it and people not noticing. After several moments, however, he realized that the people surrounding him were all tipsy and wouldn't notice, so he quickly dumped each shot into the potted plant near him when the bartender was facing the other direction.

He really hoped that Sherlock had a decent plan.

As to the last part of Sherlock's text, he decided that the detective was serious, so he began to talk to the woman next to him, who had her blonde hair in a ponytail.

"Hey," he said over the chatter of the people. "I'm John."  
"Kyla."  
"Nice to meet you. What brings you on the cruise?" John asked. He really needed to get better at flirting.

"Oh, you know, work, that sort of thing."  
"Yeah, my flatmate was driving me up the wall, so I thought I'd take a cruise," John said loudly, perfectly aware that Sherlock could hear him.

"Oh, I live alone, I wouldn't know. Just me and my cats, really," Kyla laughed.

Fortunately, after that, conversation came easily.

After an hour (an hour, Sherlock, really?) Sherlock finally texted John again.

 **We need to establish that we're friends so that we don't appear to be strangers. Be ready to play pool tonight.**

As John finished reading the text, he felt someone's hand on his back. He turned around to see the detective, still acting his role, smiling at him.

"John!" Sherlock said brightly. "Hey, mate! I didn't know you were on this cruise too!" He was grinning broadly. The persona was so disconcerting that John blinked for a few moments before regaining his composure.

"Sherlock, it's been too long!" he said loudly (he still had to act slightly drunk, right?) and hugging his wiry friend. "You know, you could've just pretended to take shots with me and then we wouldn't have to pretend we're just meeting each other," John whispered fiercely into his friend's ear.

"I wanted to check my emails to resolve some other pressing cases!" was Sherlock's stubborn whispered reply as they detached.

"Wow, it's been what, two years since I've seen you?" Sherlock asked.

"Uhh… yeah, I think so," John said, uncomfortably aware of how much more relaxed Sherlock could pretend to be.

"Play pool still?" Sherlock asked, his mouth stretched in a smile that was beginning to make John feel like he was talking to the Cheshire Cat; he was so unaccustomed to Sherlock playing social.

"Actually, haven't gotten to play in a year, but try me in a game and I bet I could still win," John said, falling more into the natural role. "Um, hang on. Kyla, this is Sherlock, an… old friend of mine. We used to play pool all the time at university."

"Want to join us in a game? It's going to be pretty relaxed, nothing competitive," Sherlock asked her, his tone light. John noticed that his voice was less posh than it usually was. That bloody man couldn't be mediocre in any sort of way, could he?

"Sure!" Kyla said happily, and John noticed Sherlock's eyes light up when she agreed. Either his plan was going well or he was an incredible actor.

"Ah…" Sherlock said, looking around. "We need one more player. Hmm… how about we ask someone?" he said rapidly. "John? Think you can get anyone to play pool with us?"

"Oh, uh, sure. Hey!" John called over to the redheaded bomber, trying not to clench his fists nervously. He was talking to a man ready to kill thousands of people… no big deal. "Care to join us in a game of pool, mate?"

Sherlock contributed now. "We've got three players and need one more. My friend and I used to play back in university and we haven't in years - actually haven't seen each other in years, either - and we're hoping to get in a game."

Now John understood why Sherlock wanted to act as though they hadn't seen each other in years.

"Sure," the bomber said uncomfortably. "I'm Dave."

"I'm John, this is Sherlock, and this is Kyla," John said, gesturing to themselves. "Ready?"

Sherlock nodded and they walked to the pool room. It was likely the most awkward situation John had ever been in, but Sherlock didn't seem to care about how tense or uncomfortable it was as long as his plan was following through. They entered the game room which was full with people, and found a pool table that wasn't being used.

"8 ball?" Sherlock asked, racking the balls up. There was a bit of consent, so the detective proceeded to break.

The game, despite the fact that they were playing with Dave the bomber, was quite fun. Sherlock proved to be quite decent at the game and John himself had played a fair amount, so he found himself competing against his friend to win.

"Scratch," John said triumphantly when Sherlock's aim resulted in the white ball rolling into the corner pocket. He took the white ball back, aimed, and sent the winning shot.

"Wow. Good game, everyone," Sherlock said, still sounding strange to John without his very posh voice. "Man, I'm thirsty. I'm going to grab some water. You all want some? Actually, I'll get you all some." He bounded towards the water dispenser. John could see the look on his face - close to solving the case. Under the impression that the water was some crucial part of the plan, John distracted Dave.

"Where are you from?" he asked. "Near here? Or visiting?"  
"Oh, near here," Dave responded, scratching his head. "I just needed to get away from things, so I came on the cruise."  
"I think that's why most of us are here," John laughed. Sherlock returned with four paper cups filled with ice water, and carefully handed each one to them. John took a sip of his (hopefully Sherlock wasn't planning on poisoning him tonight) and so did Dave, Kyla, and Sherlock.

"Alright, I think that I'm going to go in for the night," Dave said finally, throwing his cup into the trash. "Good game. Nice meeting you all." He left the room. Sherlock looked at John meaningfully and after bidding John and Kyla goodnight, left the game room.

Unfortunately, John couldn't just walk away from Kyla to join Sherlock, and he spent another ten minutes with her including exchanging numbers before he yawned too. He offered to walk her back to her room; thankfully, she declined. It wasn't as though he didn't like her, but the case with Sherlock was more important at this time. He left the game room, opening his phone.

 **Come to room 112. SH**

John hurried down the ship's corridor to find the door to room 112 slightly ajar. He pushed it open uneasily, unsure if he could knock, to find Dave unconscious and tied up and Sherlock on his phone, looking triumphant.

"I've let Mycroft know that I've caught the bomber and already found where the bomb was," Sherlock said in a monotone voice. His role as a social, slightly worn man was over. John wasn't sure if he would miss it because it had been almost too strange seeing an extraverted Sherlock. "He's on his way. The bomber was foolish, accepting the water from me. Knocked him out in eight minutes and forty-six seconds. This was easy, I don't know why Mycroft even needed my help." Despite his words, he still looked proud of solving the case. He bent over his phone and began to text again when the sudden sound of room 112's door closing jumped them.

Kyla was now standing in the room with them, holding a metal bat. There was a stunned moment where no one moved, then she lunged out and with a quick swipe, knocked John in the shoulder. It was lucky for her, because it was his injured shoulder. He gasped, stumbling back, and clutching at the old wound as it seemed to contract under his fingers. Sherlock was cornered in the small room and had absolutely nothing near him to defend himself nor anywhere to go, and resort to throwing up his hands for protection as the bat descended on him. He cried out as his arms took the force of the metal bat, and before he could raise his arms a second time, the bat had collided against his chest with a sickening crack. Sherlock's cry of pain was audible, but John had already recovered and descended on Kyla, tackling her to the floor and ripping the bat out of her grasp. He pinned her to the floor.

"Sherlock, get me that sedative, or whatever it was that you poisoned Dave with!"  
Sherlock understood immediately, despite his clear expression of pain from the blunt force on his chest. He pulled a pill tablet out of his pocket and forced it down Kyla's throat, who was putting up a good struggle, and helped John pinned her down.

"Why did you come here?" John insisted to Kyla.

"I'm Dave's assistant. It must have been bad luck for you two that you happened to pick me to get closer to him," she confessed, laughing a bit. That really was bad luck, John though, disgruntled. They pinned her down for eight minutes until she suddenly relaxed, unconscious. John tied her up and then he and Sherlock sat down. Sherlock's breathing was sharp and labored.

"Are you alright?" John asked, concerned. To his shock, Sherlock didn't answer but shut his eyes and slid down onto the floor.

"Sherlock! You need to tell me exactly what's hurting!" John commanded, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt to examine the bruise on his chest. Thankfully the door to the room was shut, or people would really be talking this time.

"Can't breathe very well," Sherlock managed, breathing heavily. John placed his hand on Sherlock's chest.

"Your diaphragm isn't expanding like it should be," John said, when Sherlock coughed and blood came out. "Internal damage. I'm calling 999."  
"John… we're on a boat… Mycroft's people are already on their way to this room to take care of the bomber… they'll be here within minutes," Sherlock said, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sherlock, you need…"

"I'm fine! Ow!" Sherlock said all at once as he breathed in. "Ah, I'm fine, John. Just a bit of pain in my transport, apparently. Nothing that… that… isn't too much to distract me… from… the… the… th-the game."

John wrapped a blanket around his friend in case of shock.

"You're lucky Mycroft was already on his way," John reprimanded. "If we didn't have anyone to help you within two hours, you could die!"  
"Wouldn't… die," Sherlock managed. "You're… my doctor. Ow."

"Yeah, but I'm not really a paramedic, am I?" John said, shaking his head at Sherlock's persistent and stubborn "mind over matter" inner monologue.

Mycroft's people, including Mycroft himself, entered the room at that time. Immediately, without any questioning, Dave and Kyla were taken from the room, and other paramedics that Sherlock had arranged to come anyway (could he see the future or something) tended to Sherlock automatically as though they did everyday.

"Blunt force trauma with a bat to his chest," John told them. "Flail chest, possibly, and his diaphragm isn't expanding like it should. He's got some internal bleeding as well." He turned to Mycroft. "For once, couldn't you give us a case that wouldn't hurt Sherlock?

"He'll recover," Mycroft said in his flat tone, looking at his little brother with little interest, though John knew that he cared about him. "As for you, Dr. Watson, thank you for taking care of him until we could get here."  
"Yeah, well, the bomb is over there," John said, pointing, "and do you think that you could get us off of this ship? It was fun while it lasted, but I want us to be on a land hospital, you know? Then we can get back to Baker Street sooner."

"I'll see what I can manage," Mycroft said, twirling his umbrella in his fingers and following his people out of the room, John in the back.

 **Sorry I'm so terrible at conclusions. Anyway, I want to thank anyone that has read this far, I appreciate it so much! Any review would be very welcome, especially any that suggest a prompt idea for an accident / injury / illness / experiment gone wrong. Please favorite/follow and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	24. Carbon Monoxide - John

**Summary: Sherlock must save John, who is locked in a room and suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **Thanks to Strawberry for the prompt!**

 **Note: I mention currency in here… please forgive me if it isn't worded correctly because I've absolutely no idea of how currency in the UK. Sorry if it's inaccurate :/**

* * *

"Tell your story - don't be dull - and then John and I will decide if we want to take your case," Sherlock intoned, sinking into his armchair with his fingers steepled under his chin.

Their client cleared their throat.

"I was at work the other day, at the diner just 'round the block, and my coworker wasn't there. So, I thought, maybe she took the day off, you know? But when I called her that night - we're close friends, see - she didn't answer. Not at home. I went to her house and all of the doors were locked and the lights off. So, I thought, I'll look in, you know? Make sure she's not murdered?" The client took a deep breath. "Her closet looked ransacked and her best clothing was gone, from what I could see, along with her perfumes and jewelry. And the previous couple of weeks, before she was missing, she'd been periodically gone in the evenings and returning late at night-"  
"Eloped! Obvious! Get out, I don't care for you to be in here anymore," Sherlock snapped. "With haste, please! I don't intend to spend my day watching you lumber out of here!"

"Come on, Sherlock, be nicer," John said, rubbing his face. "We've been doing this all day, I know, but these people genuinely don't have a clue what happened. They're not trying to annoy you."

"It doesn't make them any less idiotic," Sherlock muttered. "Next!"  
They had a line of clients waiting to get Sherlock's help for their cases. John and Sherlock had been in the United States for the past month on an important case for Mycroft, and in their absence an array of cases had collected.

A young woman came in nervously next.

"It's a bit strange," she began, "but I think that my family is being haunted by a dead enemy. Nearly everyone has died from suicide over the past twenty years, and there's a new death annually. I'm afraid I'm next. Each person seems to know it's coming, because they'll be sullen for weeks, courtesy of the hated ghost!"  
"It's not a ghost, it's depression, go see a doctor," Sherlock said angrily. "Why must you all be so boring?! Take your moronic problem away and get out of my sight."

The woman flinched and hurried out of the room.

"John, go sort through the clients and find an interesting case. I can't deal with this," Sherlock demanded, closing his eyes. "Their stupidity is giving me a headache."

"Please," John corrected. Sherlock opened one eye.

"John, please sort through the clients and find an interesting case," Sherlock repeated obediently. John obliged and opened the door to call out for any murders. The flat was filled with "In the Hall of the Mountain King" as Sherlock began to play a quick tune on his violin.

It didn't take long for John to determine whose cases would interest Sherlock and whose cases (the majority of them) would bore him. In fact, only two clients remained once he had surveyed them all briefly; Sherlock accepted the clients and solved their cases within the hour.

"A month's work is already over," Sherlock complained, flinging himself onto the couch resolutely.

"Try to find something to do," John said briskly, "because I'm going to the grocery store for milk, eggs, and bread. Is there anything you need?"

"Yes, actually. I need at least five pints of type O+ blood," Sherlock responded, throwing his legs over the end of the couch and standing.

"Anything _normal_?" John rectified.

"Could you get some cashews actually?" Sherlock asked hopefully. "Unsalted?"

" _That_ I can do," John agreed, throwing his jacket on, and walking out of the flat. Baker Street was busy with tourists since it was the dead of summer. A woman dressed in black nodded at John as he left the flat, and he smiled back at her before continuing down to the store. He was passing an empty street when someone behind him grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into it. He swung his fist out of pure instinct until he saw that it was the same woman in black outside of their flat - and also realized it was the same on who had said a ghost haunted her family.

"Can I help you?" John asked warily, glancing back at the sunny main road. The street they were standing on was shadowy and quiet. The woman looked at him nervously.

"I… need to tell you something…" she said, shifting from her left to her right foot and twirling her hair anxiously around her finger.

"What is it?" John asked, growing concerned for this woman's health and well-being.

She bit her cheek and leaned closer to his ear.

"I have to tell you…" she hesitated, and quicker than John could move, she had brought a syringe up to his neck and stabbed it recklessly into him. John stumbled back, rubbing where the needle had punctured his skin in shock.

"I have to tell you that you're a fool," the woman said, her anxious facade replaced by confidence. "Really clever of you, Dr. Watson, allowing me to pull you into an empty-" Her sentence was cut off as John lunged at her, tackling her against the wall of the brick building next to them.

"What did you do?" he demanded, pushing his forearm against her neck to threaten her. "What was in that?!"  
But he didn't need her answer. His mouth felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton swabs and the world was beginning to spin. He loosened his grip on the woman as she choked slightly; the second he had backed down slightly, she took the opportunity to kick him down. John keeled over and blacked out before he hit the ground.

* * *

John came to in a small room. It was square and airtight with no windows. The suction-locked door had several bolts and padlocks on it.

Brilliant. He was locked in a windowless room that was also incredibly small. Its length and width couldn't have been more than six feet and the height was only a couple of inches above John's head. For the first time, he was glad that he was short. Sherlock would have had to stoop if he was locked in the room.

Behind him was a pay phone hooked to the wall. Clearly this room was designed specifically for a strange purpose - what house just happens to have an extremely minute airtight room with only a payphone?

That was when John saw sixty pence on the floor next to him. So he was allowed to make one thirty minute call, that was obvious. The purpose of being drugged and imprisoned in this room was lost to John, but he'd been kidnapped many times (thanks, Mycroft) so he was remaining calm.

Now he had to decide whether he should make a phone call now or later. His kidnapper clearly wanted him to make a phone call at one point, but he had no idea why. The absence of answers was beginning to frustrate him - he had no idea where he was, who the woman was, why he was there, how he had gotten there, nor what he was supposed to do on the phone.

He finally opted to ignore what his kidnapper most likely was planning and stuck the sixty pence into the phone for the thirty minute call.

"Come on… pick up, Sherlock," John muttered. On the fourth ring, his chest lightened in relief as the crackling of the call being accepted went through the line.

"Hello?" was the suspicious baritone voice on the other end.

"Sherlock!" John said in relief.

"John? Where are my cashews?"

"What? No, I've been kidnapped! I've no idea where I am!"  
Sherlock's tone instantly changed. "Tell me exactly what you can see, John. You have no idea where you are?"

"No, I could be right in the center of London, I could be underground, I've no clue. I'm in a windowless, airtight room, about 150 cubic square feet, I'd say. That's it. It's a cement room. I can't hear anything, and all that was in here was sixty pence and the telephone on the wall; my own phone is gone. Oh, and it was the woman who you said had depression - she's the one that kidnapped me. I was drugged," John said very rapidly, feeling more and more reassured with every fact of his kidnapping that he told to his friend.

"I'll find you," Sherlock promised. "I'll contact Mycroft and see if we can find you on security footage. Where were you kidnapped?"

"The block before the grocery store."

"John, you said you're in a room that's 150 cubic square feet?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. Approximately."

There was silence on the other line for a moment, then Sherlock's voice returned.

"John, you realize that if you're in an airtight room, that the danger of carbon monoxide is evident."

John's blood turned to ice. He'd forgotten about that little factor. He wouldn't die from loss of oxygen if he was stuck in here too long, it would be from his output of carbon monoxide from his own breathing.

"How long do you think I can last in here?" he asked, unsure of whether he wanted to know the answer.

"Luckily for you, John, there's a formula for that. Divide the product of quantity individuals in a space and the individual's production of carbon monoxide by-"

"Right! I'm not going to remember all of that!" John said, frustrated. "What's the answer?"  
"I'll do the math," Sherlock said. There was a brief pause. "You've got an estimated three hours before the carbon monoxide levels become toxic."

John swore. "Okay, well, we've got twenty-three minutes left on this call. I don't think there's anything else, but leave the line on, alright? Just - hurry. And I'll try not to breathe too much." There was a rustle on the other end as Sherlock was presumably dashing out of the flat (or at least that's what John hoped was happening).

* * *

John was feeling strangely hopeful about the situation as he sat on the floor of the minuscule room. That is, until the line went dead. His thirty minutes were up and he had only used about seven of them. At least Sherlock was on his way (well, at least to figuring out where John was). He entertained himself by reviewing the emergency medical care he had learned back at university.

Every breath he exhaled irritated him because he was only outputting what would kill him. If only the room was a bit larger so Sherlock could have more time. John was reminded forcibly of the case with the five orange pips. A very delicate deadline was in that case as well.

He began to imagine headlines that would be in the newspaper the next day.

 **Man Found Dead in a Tiny Room**

Honestly, it just sounded stupid.

 **John Watson Found Dead of Carbon Monoxide Poisoning**

If he survived this, he wouldn't be surprised if carbon monoxide was actually how he would end up dying, what with Sherlock's dangerous experiments. How ironic. Was he doomed to die by air poisoning?

 **Army Medic Couldn't Save Himself, Dies of Toxic CO2 Levels**

This one was alright. At least he'd be remembered as an army medic. On the other hand, it also made him look rather incompetent, as though he _could_ have saved himself but wasn't able to. Maybe he didn't like this one.

 **Bachelor John Watson Asphyxiated**

As soon as he thought of this one he disregarded it forcefully. He had absolutely no inclination to be remembered as "bachelor".

 **Holmes's Blogger Found Dead Too Late**

This one was definitely the most ridiculous, John thought, smirking to himself. It made him sound like a damsel in distress. He was beginning to feel like one, as a matter of fact. Sherlock had to save him too many times. It was beginning to get embarrassing.

He hoped Sherlock was on his way, because now he was getting restless at the looming prospect of certain death.

* * *

It had to be close to two hours. A dull headache was piercing at his right temple. That couldn't be good. Nor could his blurred vision. Maybe it was more than two hours; he had no idea.

Hang on! He had change in his left shoe, he had put it in there one day when he was wearing sweats and didn't have any pockets! Triumphantly he took out the change and fished out sixty pence, eager to check on Sherlock's progress. He stood up to insert the change into the payphone - a bit too quickly, and swayed violently. His headache pulsed in his ears and the room spun around. Before he was even aware of it, he was vomiting.

Brilliant. Now he was in an airtight room with his own vomit. That'd be a pleasant smell. John fought the nausea and dialed Sherlock's number. The detective picked up almost immediately.

"John? How are you doing?" Sherlock asked quickly.

"Uh, well, I'm… fine," John said, not in the mood to talk about what was inevitable. "Have you found where I am?"

"Yes! Mycroft found security footage of your kidnapping and has followed it to the only possible location, which is in an old building outside of London. He just tracked it, so we're on our way now. I expect to arrive in an estimated nineteen minutes, and then I have no idea how long it will take to locate the keys and get you out of the room." Sherlock's voice was steady but maybe an octave higher than usual.

"Okay, great! Sherlock, stay calm, we'll get out of this," John said, closing his eyes and willing himself not to vomit.

"You're the one who should stay calm!" was Sherlock's earnest answer. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm doing fine. Really, Sherlock," John said, guilt eating at him for lying to his best friend, but he couldn't stand Sherlock panicking at his state. In all honesty, he felt terrible. "Alright, Sherlock, I'm going to have to stop talking to, you know, save the oxygen in the air, okay?" Fatigue was now lapping at him and he wanted nothing more than to sit down again.

"Okay, John. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thanks, mate," John said, and set the phone down. He slid onto the floor.

 _Don't panic. It will only make you breathe more._

The acrid scent of his vomit only made him retch again. He crawled away from the bile and huddled in the corner.

 _Don't go to sleep, or you'll die,_ a nagging voice told him. Easier said than done. He was beginning to feel suffocated; his breaths were getting shorter. The air felt tainted; contaminated. He wanted nothing more than to be outside. A memory surfaced of when he had gone hiking with his family a decade ago, before Harry had become an alcoholic. The air was fresh, piney, clean, sweet. He longed to taste that air again. Anything but the tight air in this room that was poisoned and sour.

* * *

"Give me the keys," Sherlock yelled at the woman in the house. "Now! Give them to me!" He slapped her face. Mycroft looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Efficiency is key, little brother," he said in an infuriatingly slow tone. Sherlock steeled himself and considered the room.

Think. Where would she put the keys? He concentrated, flicking his eyes over the woman (superstitious, alone, afraid of robbers). He had found the keys within thirty seconds and now was sprinting to where the locked door was.

His own shaking fingers delayed the time to unlock the door and once he had finally inserted the key, a rush of anticipation overcame him; would John be sitting up, smiling at him, or dazed from the poisoning? He didn't want to consider the worst case scenario and flung the door open.

Warm, sour air plagued by the pungent scent of vomit drifted out of the room. John was lying, collapsed, eyes shut, against the wall of the room. Sherlock dashed over and pulled him out of the room and didn't stop until he had gotten him outside.

"John!" Sherlock tried. "John, can you hear me?"  
To his intense relief, John's eyes opened. He coughed.

"Bloody room," he managed weakly. "I can't… breathe, Sherlock,"

"Breathe in and out, John, you're out of the room. I doubt you need an ambulance. Well, I don't think so, at least," Sherlock said. "I was under the impression at first that I would have to do CPR on you, so I'm grateful you aren't unconscious."

"Me too, mate," John said, rolling his eyes. "Ah… the air feels so good. Can we go back to Baker Street?"

"Yes. One moment. Will you be alright out here while I take care of something?"

John nodded. Sherlock went back into the house, and there was a woman's muffled scream then a loud crash before Sherlock reemerged, smiling.

"Let's go home," he agreed, and helped John up.

 **Hope you enjoyed reading this one! Thanks again to Strawberry for the idea!  
If you have any illness / injury / experiment gone wrong idea, please suggest it to me in a review and I'll try to write it! Thanks so much for reading, I really appreciate it!**


	25. Car Crash - Sherlock

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to lucydragneel2222 for the story prompt!**

* * *

"John, may I call your work and tell them that you have severe pneumonia?" came Sherlock's voice from the kitchen of the flat on a Thursday evening.

John was in the shower and he paused, processing what Sherlock had said.

"What? No! It's a really busy week, everyone's got the flu!" he shouted back. "Don't you dare phone them!" He finished rinsing the shampoo out of his hair and threw his pyjamas on hastily, jogging down the stairs. "Sherlock, do _not_ call me in sick!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John from where he was sitting at his microscope. "I haven't. I won't. You asked me not to. Do you really think that I wouldn't respect your request?"

"Yes!"  
"John, you don't me enough credit," Sherlock sighed. "There's a case out several hours away. It baffled the local police, apparently, and no one can solve it, so it finally reached Scotland Yard, who unsurprisingly also cannot solve it. My presence is demanded there tomorrow, and I suppose if you cannot join me, I'll be going alone."

"Alone?" John repeated.

"Yes, that's what it's called, John, when one loses the companionship of their blogger."

"I'd say you're going to _miss_ me," John snorted. "That's sentiment, you know,"

"I will not _miss_ you," Sherlock retorted. "I only desired your company in order for your highly useful blog to continue cataloguing my cases. It attracts attention and earns me more cases, so unless I want boredom, I need you documenting every deduction and mystery I solve!"

"A bit defensive," John noted, fully aware of the effect he was having on the detective. As expected, Sherlock stood sharply, smoothing down his suit with an expression of superiority.

"Your needless chatter is infuriating, John. I'm resorting to my room to study until you can contain your visions of sentiment and _emotions_." He paused. "I'll leave tomorrow morning and I will return by noon tomorrow. The case sounds fairly simple."

"Alright. Well, sorry I can't come," John added seriously. Sherlock just waved his hand and left for his room.

* * *

"Sherlock, it's snowing, can't the case wait until tomorrow?" John pleaded the next day. "The roads will be horrible, mate. Have you ever even driven in the snow before?"

"Relax, John."

"It's not a joke! You're driving several hours on snowy country roads! Just wait until tomorrow and they're cleaned up a bit!"

"I need to solve the case," Sherlock said defiantly.

Obviously, John didn't want Sherlock out on the roads, but the primary reason that he wanted Sherlock to wait until Saturday to head out was because then he'd be able to join. Despite his opposition to calling in sick at the office, a case out in the country sounded much more fun than working with sick children all day.

But Sherlock resisted any incitation to wait and soon John had left for work, only imagining what was happening on the case.

* * *

"Flu?" John asked a bit abrasively to his fifth patient that day that came in pale and feverish. "Need medicine?" He steeled himself; it wasn't the patient's fault that his day was long and more irritating since he knew Sherlock was on a case. "Sorry. What are you in for today?" he rectified. The patient had the flu (no surprise) and John filled out the same forms for medication as he had already done four times that day. Once his patient was gone, there was a knock on his door.

"John?" Sarah asked, poking her head in. "We've got to move quickly today. There's a bunch of people with the flu in the lobby, and a huge car pile-up right outside of the city just caused mayhem. Everyone not going to the emergency room - that is, about twenty people - are coming here for minor injuries."

"Yeah. Right," John said, sitting upright. "We'll get through as many of the flu patients as we can before the others come, yeah?"

"That's the plan," Sarah said, smiling, and she left.

Six flu patients later, the first car crash patient came through the door. John identified a fractured wrist along with several bruises and cuts.

"What happened?" he asked. "Slippery roads?"

The patient nodded. "A huge eighteen-wheel truck careened into oncoming traffic. People couldn't stop in time because it was too icy, so car after car crashed into each other. Most people were all right, except for the poor people who got nailed by the truck. It was horrible. The truck crashed through about three cars before rolling."

It was in between his third and fourth crash patients that John got the call.

"Hello? John Watson?" came a calm female voice.

"Yes. Who is this?" John asked, twirling his pen in his fingers.

"I'm a nurse at the hospital, sir. We have a man who was severely injured in the crash. He's hurt badly but managed to let us know his emergency contact - you. Are you able to come?"

John's blood turned to ice.

"Is it a lanky guy? Dark, curly hair?"

"Yes."

John swore. "I'm on my way." He was almost out of the office when he remembered that he had to let Sarah know. He knocked on her door; fortunately, she didn't have a patient.

"John?" She eyed his coat. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I'm so sorry. Sherlock, he's at the hospital. He was in the crash. I've got to go," John said.

"Oh, no. You can go," Sarah said immediately. "Let me know how he is?"

"Yeah," John said, hurrying out of the office.

* * *

It was an hour after John arrived at the hospital that he was allowed in to see Sherlock. He had been in the second car that the truck had crashed into and had sustained broken ribs, a concussion, and heavy bleeding from shrapnel that had gouged his shoulder.

"John?" Sherlock croaked from his bed. "You… came?"

"Of course I came," John said, nearly laughing with relief that his friend didn't seem to have any permanent damage. "You got in a car crash."

Sherlock paused. "You were right."

"I was?" John said, surprised.

"You bid me not to go out on the slippery roads."

John thought for a moment. "Oh! Right! Yeah, I was right!" He had entirely forgotten that conversation because its purpose had been more selfish than Sherlock knew; it was only because John had wanted to join the case as well.

"But it wasn't my fault in the slightest, so I do not have trepidation about driving on slippery roads just because of this experience," Sherlock continued.

"You realize you could have died?"

"John, how many times have you or I nearly died?" Sherlock asked bluntly. "Many times. I wouldn't be surprised if one of us dies rather soon. Balance of probability, you know."  
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, outraged. "That's… terrible to say!"

"It's factual. When can we return to Baker Street?"

"Not for a while. You were badly injured, did you notice?" John asked sarcastically. He winced. "Sorry. It's just that I hate the thought that you could've died today."

"I could die any day," Sherlock reminded him, "but I would like to play my violin."

"You'll have to wait for your left shoulder to heal first," John said. "It was torn by a piece of metal that gouged itself into you."

"This… 'being hurt' process is entirely inconvenient," Sherlock griped. "It's slow and dull."

"Maybe it'll give you inclination to be more careful from now on," John said matter-of-factly.

"But the crash wasn't my fault!" Sherlock insisted.

"I mean in general!" John said, when Sherlock suddenly gasped. "You alright, mate?" John asked, concerned. "Want me to get the nurse?"

"It's fine. I just… felt my ribs a bit," Sherlock said, smiling painfully. "Could you turn up the morphine?"

"I'm not your doctor," John said hesitantly.

"Oh, please, John. Yes, you are. Turn it up. Please," Sherlock added. John sighed and obliged. Sherlock closed his eyes, looking slightly less tense, as the sedatives did their job.

Sherlock was one lucky sod.

 **A conversation wasn't really what I was planning on doing for this chapter. It was also very short. Oh, well. I think I'll have more suspense in the next one. Again, thanks to lucydragneel2222 for the idea of a car crash! Please favorite / follow / review, I would be so grateful!**


	26. Blinded - John

**Warning: There will be graphic torture in this chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 for preparing this chapter idea for me!**

* * *

"Let's get dinner," John suggested that evening to Sherlock, who was in a foul mood. "How about we get Italian?"

The detective did not answer.

Earlier that evening, John and Sherlock had pursued and arrested the wrong person - the twin of the actual criminal. Come to find out, the twin they accidentally captured was also a robber, so he was arrested anyway. On the downside, they hadn't found the twin they were originally searching for.

"It's never twins," Sherlock had once said.

Well, this time it was, and Sherlock was angry at his error. John tried to distract him from his dissatisfaction at failing the case.

"Come on, Sherlock, we can just finish the case tomorrow, it's not the end of the world," John encouraged. Sherlock picked up his violin and began to bow at the strings without much purpose.

"Right. We're going. You really are a petulant child, you know that?"

Finally Sherlock spoke. "John, I made a mistake!" he protested. "You can't expect me to just _forget_ that I failed the case. You might be able to push your failures out of your fairly simple mind, but mine is too complex! It takes time and effort to delete undesired memories from my hard drive!"

"Oh, shut up talking about yourself," John snapped. "You can resume the case tomorrow. Won't it be more fun for you? Now you have an angry twin to catch, because you imprisoned his sibling. Honestly, Sherlock, for once, just act human and forgive yourself! Everyone makes mistakes!"

Sherlock pressed his hands over his temples. "You're giving me a headache, John. I'm surprised; you act as though you're so emotionally intelligent compared to me, yet you cannot seem to catch the hint that perhaps I do not want to join you for dinner?! You're too… boring! No doubt you'll just talk about your plans for tomorrow, or what Mrs. Hudson is up to this weekend, your job, one of your ex-girlfriends, or something equally dull. Now - leave - me - alone!"

John snatched his jacket from the couch. "Yeah, fine! Just bombard me with texts the second you need me again, alright?!"

Sherlock didn't catch the sarcasm. "I will."

John slammed the door as he left Baker Street. At times Sherlock was an impressive, stimulating, quietly generous friend; other times, he was a stubborn, rude, conceited flatmate. He found himself walking into the Italian restaurant he had been prompting him and Sherlock to go get dinner at and sat down.

There hadn't been any texts from Sherlock. A small part of John that had cooled down walking over to the restaurant remembered that his friend hadn't eaten since the day before, and he reluctantly sent a text to Sherlock, unsure as to whether the detective would respond.

 **I'm at the restaurant now. You can come or I can bring something back for you.**

 **I'll come. SH**

Sherlock's response was quick and ten seconds later John received another text.

 **Do I have time to finish the violin concerto I'm practicing right now? SH**

Even through text Sherlock sounded like a child, John thought, amused. He sent a "yes" back and ordered two pasta dishes, wine for himself and water for Sherlock, who didn't drink. The waiter came over with a bottle of wine and poured John a glass, and before long the pasta had arrived while John sipped his drink, waiting.

Sherlock still hadn't come yet, but John thought it wouldn't be too much longer. At least, he hoped; he didn't feel like eating cold pasta. His wine didn't taste very good and he eventually stopped drinking it.

That was when he first felt nauseous. It came on quickly - one second he thought it was just a bit of queasiness, and the next he was standing up to run into the bathroom to vomit. John bent, shaking, over the toilet, wiping his mouth, a headache pounding in his head. Whatever ailment had overtaken him, it wasn't normal. That was when there was a vice-like grip on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, sir?" came the voice of the waiter.

John nearly choked on more vomit in surprise. "Privacy, please!" he said angrily, realizing he had shut but not locked the door in his haste to retch in the toilet and not on the floor.

"Let me assist you, sir," the waiter said, his strong grip still on John's shoulder.

"Excuse me!" John nearly shouted, vomiting in the middle of his sentence. "Get out. Now!" The part of him that was alarmed at the sick was more alarmed at the persistence and invasion of privacy the waiter was exemplifying.

"Let me help you, sir," the waiter said, and with strength that John couldn't fight back without making a scene, pulled John up with his shoulders and steered him out of the back of the restaurant. The second they were alone by the dumpster, John took his chance and swung at the waiter, nailing him in the gut.

"Are you insane?" John demanded. "What do you think you're doing?!"  
He was almost caught off guard when the waiter lunged at him and he was slammed into the side of the building; he recovered quickly and kicked at the waiter's groin, who was subdued for a moment. Unfortunately, John's sick had poor timing, and he vomited again, slowing him down from escaping (it was harder than he would have thought to run and puke simultaneously). He was bent over, retching, when something hard and heavy slammed into the back of his skull.

 _Oh, no. I cannot pass out, I cannot pass out, I cannot pass out…_ was all John could think as his vision blackened; he was still standing, and ferociously rubbing the darkness and stars out of his eyes before the waiter could attack again. He was too late, and another slam in the back of his skull sent him toppling to the ground.

Relief tumbled through him as he realized he was still conscious, somehow and miraculously, but there was no way he could win the fight now with an almost guaranteed concussion, so he played unconscious in the hopes that the waiter would simply leave.

That was when he suddenly had the mental image of Sherlock, arriving in the restaurant, looking for John, and seeing that his friend wasn't there. Would he think John was lying to him as a joke? No, the detective was a genius - but the nagging feeling wouldn't stop, and John's eyes flew open against his will.

The waiter was looking at him - not good. John shut his eyes again - maybe the waiter hadn't seen? - but he must have, because his head suffered another collision with the heavy object, and this time, he passed out.

* * *

He woke up only about five minutes after having been knocked out, according to his watch. In that time the waiter had tied him to a chair and they were still behind the restaurant, but now a bit of a distance away behind the dumpster. Lovely.

"It's interesting, what a simple disguise can do, or else you would have been suspicious of me from the beginning," the waiter said. John didn't answer; his head was pounding.

"Like a simple… wig and beard," the waiter said, and ripped off his wig revealing dark hair underneath, and taking off his moustache.

John recognized him instantly. He was the other twin, the twin they had intended to catch but didn't, the one that had put Sherlock in a horrible temper. He felt so stupid for not recognizing him earlier; he was identical to the brother they had caught accidentally.

"What do you want?" John asked, his voice strained from his blinding headache.

"Simple. I want revenge for you capturing my brother. We're very close, see," the waiter said, and he smiled. "I suppose if I'm already what people call psychopathic, then I'm entitled to a bit of torture without being judged too harshly, right?"

"I would disagree," John said calmly, as though they were discussing something like the weather, but his sentence ended in a shudder as the waiter opened his coat to reveal an array of surgical tools. John recognized each one that he used quite frequently at work. Scalpel, bone cutter, forceps, surgical stapler, and a dilator.

John was about to bellow Sherlock's name - screw saving himself - when the twin stuffed a gag into his mouth.

"Which one first?" he said, and selected the forceps. "Sorry. That was a rhetorical question. But we'll start with the easiest."

He carefully bent over John and began to jam at his eyes.

John could feel himself yelling but the gag muffled the sound; the dull end of the forceps were being repeatedly thrust into his eyes (which he kept clamped shut), digging harder than any pressure John ever applied to his eyes when Sherlock was being particularly obnoxious. He wasn't sure how long he was sitting there, helpless, as his eyes were mutilated, until the waiter stopped. Very slowly, he opened his eyes, and panicked to find that he couldn't see anything. Temporary or permanent, the twin had done damage.

 _Keep your breaths steady,_ he told himself; there was no use in panicking (at least until he got out of this situation. That didn't help much, and he could feel his heart rate increasing.

 _What if Sherlock doesn't need me anymore? That's not even a question, actually, why would he need a blind man on his cases?!_

This was it. This was the last case John would do with Sherlock, because he couldn't do anything with no eyesight. He nearly vomited again; luckily, he didn't, considering the gag was in his mouth.

This also meant that he couldn't see what the waiter was doing. The latter seemed aware of this, perhaps because John was looking wildly back and forth for any sort of light.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, you've only just had the first tool! Next I think we'll do… the scalpel." The waiter's breathing came closer to John, who tried to shrink away, but it was no use being tied up. He felt the sharp knife slicing fire across his jaw.

"I think we need some blood on the lower half of the face, don't you? To match the eyes?" the waiter asked.

That was when fast footsteps interrupted the silence. There was an intake of air from the waiter, who pressed the scalpel deeper into John's jaw, when a sudden crash in front of him indicated someone was wrestling with the waiter. The scuffle seemed to last only thirty seconds, before the gag was removed from John's mouth.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" John asked hopefully.

"Of course it is. Are you alright?" said Sherlock, and John could feel him untying his bonds.

"Well… " John delayed. The last thing he wanted was to hear Sherlock's crushing disappointment that his blogger was blinded and would no longer be able to help on the cases. "I think… I've got a severe concussion."

"I assumed as much. Blinded, too; either temporarily or permanently?" Sherlock asked as the last bond was untied.

John felt his mouth drop as he stood, swaying; he could feel Sherlock move to his side and put his arm around him to steady him before leading him towards, presumably, a cab to return to Baker Street.

"Yeah. How'd you know?" he said, astounded.

There was a baritone snort in response.

"John, you realize that your eyes have blood around them and are quite clearly mangled. The fact that you asked if it was me confirmed my suspicion."

"Oh," John said, stumbling suddenly as his toe caught on the ground; Sherlock's grip instantly tightened and prevented him from falling.  
"Watch out, there's a lip on the pavement there," Sherlock said.

"Thanks for the warning," John said, fighting to keep tears away, because he could still feel the panic at not being able to see and he didn't want Sherlock to see him cry.

"Are we going back to Baker Street?" John asked after he had been settled in the cab.

"No, we're going to the hospital," was Sherlock's indignant reply.

* * *

"So, how long is it going to last?" Sherlock asked impatiently once John's eyes had been examined, his jaw had been stitched, and he had been given painkillers for his concussion.

The doctor (whom was male but John could discern nothing else about him) took a deep breath.

"Temporary. I think it should last about a week. You'll have to have your eyes bandaged to keep them healing, but I think that your eyesight will gradually return in a week's time."

Sherlock's sigh of relief was audible. After giving instructions, the doctor left, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the room.

"That's a relief," John said as calmly as he could, because the blackness was still terrifying. "I… thought if it was permanent, then, you know, I wouldn't be able to help on the cases anymore, and you'd have to replace me."

Sherlock was quiet. John hated not being able to see his expression.

"It would be difficult for you to come," Sherlock said finally. "But I wouldn't replace you. You're… my friend."

"I'm really sorry, Sherlock. About not understanding how you felt earlier this evening. I should've been less… overbearing. Nor should I have called you a child."

"I had already forgotten," Sherlock said genuinely. "I believe that I might have said things that are offensive, so I apologize for anything I said."  
Of course. The genius wasn't aware of what it was that he had said. John accepted the apology nonetheless and smiled vaguely in the direction that Sherlock seemed to be in. "Thanks for coming for me, Sherlock."

"It was no difficult task," was the detective's response, "especially when it comes to my friend."

 **I love having Sherlock admit that John's his friend.**

 **Anyway, thanks for reading! If you have an idea for an illness / accident / experiment gone wrong / injury to occur to Sherlock or John, please please let me know in a review!**

 **Thanks again to Starcross123!**


	27. Numb - John

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **I'd like to send a huge thank you to Starcross123 for preparing this prompt for me!**

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm leaving now. See you later," John called from the door.

There was no answer from Sherlock, who was sprawled on the couch with his eyes open yet unmoving.

"I'm leaving," John repeated, only louder. "Bye."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over to John, hovered there for a moment, analyzing him, then returned to the gaze at the ceiling.

"Bye, Sherlock," John said yet again. He hadn't intended on forcing his friend to say bye to him but now that he had started, he was bent on getting the stubborn detective to just say the word.

"John, you'll be back within forty-five minutes. It's only an orthodontist appointment. I don't feel it's necessary to exchange goodbyes. It's such a dull, wasteful manner that society has forced upon us."

John frowned. "How did you know - sorry, _notice_ \- I was going to the orthodontist?" he asked, remembering to avoid Sherlock's inevitable response "I didn't know, I noticed".

Sherlock rolled upward to a sitting position.

"You've just brushed your teeth and it's nearing lunch. You never do that. It's possible that you could be going on a date, but the fact that you're wearing your oldest jumper which is quite frankly a hideous blue eliminates that possibility. The most likely reason, then, is a trip to the dentist."

"How do you make that seem so simple?" John asked, shaking his head.

"It's easy, John. All you do is infer from what you observe, alongside dedication and practice."

"Right, I've got to go," John said, glancing at his watch. "See you later."

There was a pause. "See… you later," was Sherlock's hesitant reply. The words almost sounded comical coming from Sherlock's mouth, but John didn't have time to dwell on it because he was running late.

Fortunately, he made it to the dental office before his name was called. He signed in and took a seat at the waiting room, flicking through a newspaper. He was only reminded of his and Sherlock's current case: a strangler. They had nearly traced the general location of where the strangler was, but they had not yet identified him or her.

"John?" the dental hygienist called. John put down his newspaper and stood up, following her in. He laid down in the chair and she began to go over his teeth with a small tool.

"I read your blog," she said shyly. "It's absolutely brilliant. I read it to my kids, you know, and their dream now is to meet Sherlock Holmes and become detectives."

"Oh, Sherlock will be flattered," John said, smiling, once she had taken the tool out of his mouth, even though he knew full well that Sherlock wouldn't give a care whether he had impressed children or not.

"My favorite was 'The Hound of Baskerville'," the hygienist continued, "but my kids loved 'The Poison Giant'. Oh, your post 'Many Happy Returns' made me cry! I'm so glad Sherlock's back!"

"Right, yeah," John said, making a mental note to delete that blog post. "Yeah, that was awhile ago… Sherlock and I have decided to ignore that two year period in which he was dead."

The hygienist had John spit into the sink.

"All done," she said. "I'll have the orthodontist come in now to take a look." She left the room, and ten minutes later, the dentist walked in.

"Hello, John, I'm Dr. Phillens," she said, shutting the door. She lowered John's chair more and adjusted the lamp above him. "I heard tell that you're the blogger of Sherlock Holmes?"  
"Yep," John said, smiling slightly.

"I haven't read your blog, but I've certainly heard about you two and the crime you solve," she said. "I'll have to take a look at it."

Dr. Phillens worked on his teeth for ten minutes before frowning. "I'll have to readjust your crown," she said. "Do you mind if we get it done today?"

"That's fine," John agreed.

She took out the procaine, or rather Novocaine, to inject into his mouth. John detested Novocaine; it numbed his entire mouth and made it feel rather swollen; even more so than usual. Or, he just hadn't had to have Novocaine injected into his mouth in a long time. His mouth was still thoroughly numb when he hailed a cab back to Baker Street, and he felt slightly ridiculous having to lisp his location (trying very hard not to let any drool come out). A numbed mouth was not an easy one to speak with.

John glanced at his watch in hopes that it wasn't too late because he was also planning on running several (as in six) errands before making dinner that night. To his surprise, his watch looked blurry. He glanced up to find that there was a film of cloud across his vision, as though he were wearing smudged contacts. He rubbed his eyes to reduce the fuzziness; to his irritation, it didn't go away.

There also seemed to be a high pitched ringing in the cab. It only increased in volume the longer that he was riding in the cab for, so he was quite relieved to get out and return upstairs to Baker Street for lunch before running the errands. He paid the cabby (and was relieved to find that his lisp was gone, only the numb feeling was still in his mouth now) and got up, walking over to 221, when dizziness swept through him.

John shrugged it off. That frequently happened when he stood up too quickly. What was really bothering him was the high pitched ringing that he could still hear in his ears and the blurry edges of his vision.

Maybe he'd do the errands tomorrow, he thought, because in all honesty he really wasn't in the mood to do them, especially now.

He went up the stairs to Baker Street, hypothesising that Sherlock would be in the exact same position as when he had left. Naturally, he was right. Sherlock was still sprawled across the couch.

"Have you done anything yet today?" John asked, making himself a sandwich for lunch. He had to pause again while dizziness raged through him. That was strange. He continued to rub at his eyes in hopes that the blurriness would be suddenly wiped away, but it wasn't.

"I've done plenty," Sherlock said from his position on the couch.  
"Yeah?" John asked, deciding to make a sandwich for Sherlock too and taking out more bread. "Like what?"

"I've already thought about twenty-four potential experiments and projects to do next," Sherlock said, swinging his legs up and standing up, smoothing his dressing robe. "How did the dentist appointment go?"

"Fine. My crown had to be readjusted," John replied. "Want a sandwich?"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, taking it. "I'm going to shower." He marched off down the hallway, biting into the sandwich. John sat down at the counter, eating his own sandwich. He paused after two bites; the ringing really was infuriating. He didn't end up finishing his sandwich.

Yeah, there was no way that he'd be doing the errands, he thought. Besides, his blurry vision, ringing ears, and waves of vertigo were perfect excuses. He meant to turn on the television but ended up just sitting in his armchair, his sandwich still in his hand, contemplating the strange feelings.

It seemed much too quick that Sherlock was already walking out of his bedroom, showered and fully dressed in a suit with his hair still as curly as it had been earlier. He came over and sat across from John in his armchair.

"We've got to finish the strangler's case, John," Sherlock intoned. "It's taking me far too long. I'd like to wrap it up hopefully in an hour's time, if you'll assist me in an excursion to the other side of London."

John heard Sherlock but wasn't processing what he was saying. He only realized that Sherlock had been expecting a response (of all people to expect a response!) when the detective was staring at him forcefully.

"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

"What? I'm fine," John assured him, rubbing his eyes again - why wouldn't the blurry vision go away?!

"You're trembling," Sherlock pointed out.

Oh. He hadn't realized he was trembling. John glanced at his hands, which were shaking. Sherlock was right. But he always was, wasn't he? He moved his hand away as he felt Sherlock's hand grabbing for his, but Sherlock was quicker and snatched his wrist.

"You're feeling my pulse," John observed.

"Fantastic deduction," Sherlock said sarcastically. "John, why is your pulse slow?"

"Because I'm tired?" John hadn't even realized the truth of his words until after he had said them.

"Why are you tired?" Sherlock demanded. "John, what happened at the dentist's?"

John thought for a moment. "I already told you," he said, frowning.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wasn't listening, John. I was only trying to follow the social etiquette. You told me it's polite to ask people about their day."

That was nice of him, John thought, smiling slightly. He tried to rub his eyes again and was slightly alarmed by the tremors that were now racking through his body.

He was surprised to find Sherlock helping him up.

"I don't need help," he assured his friend. "Are you taking me to the emergency room?"

"Yes."

"But I'm fine. I think it's just a bit of a cold, or something." John was fully aware of the ringing in his ears, and trembling, but it would pass. At least, he hoped that it would pass. Besides, Sherlock could be dramatic. There wasn't really a need for the hospital.

"But-" John protested, following Sherlock down the stairs nonetheless. Sherlock was pulling his Belstaff and scarf on.

"John, you're quite clearly having negative side effects to the Novocaine. Whether it was an overdose, a mixture with an incorrect solution, or an allergic reaction, you're not well."

"I'm… dizzy. My head hurts," John said dully when he could feel his legs turning to jelly. "Can we just… get in the cab, then?"

"That's what I'm doing, John," Sherlock said, hailing a cab. John didn't remember toppling towards the pavement, but the next second, Sherlock was helping him get back to his feet.

"My bad, John. I should have realized you were about to faint," Sherlock said, opening the cab door for John. "I hope you understand that this is highly inconvenient for me. I've got to change my mental schedule around. I was intending on capturing the strangler, until you became ill."

"I didn't choose to," John muttered. "Sociopath."

Sherlock didn't glance up but texted rapidly on his phone. Bloody git, John thought. They arrived at the hospital. John was feeling slightly better.

"Sherlock, I don't feel as dizzy. Can we just head back to Baker Street?" John pleaded.

"No."  
John sighed and opened his door, climbing out of the cab. For the second time that day, the sidewalk suddenly flipped and came rushing towards his face, and that was the last he saw before blackness.

* * *

"Well, John, I'm glad you're awake," Sherlock said the instant John opened his eyes in the warm hospital bed. "Allow me to fill you in on the details. I managed to catch the strangler."

John was barely understanding a word that Sherlock was saying but tried as hard as he could to listen for his friend's sake.

"I did a small investigation. Apparently, your dentist, who was also the strangler, found out that we were onto her. She attempted to delay us by overdosing you with Novocaine, which was near fatal. Rather stupid of her, really. It only led me straight to her as the strangler." Sherlock ruffled his hands through his dark hair. "The stupid criminals are so _dull_."

"Well, you caught her, then," John said weakly. "Did Lestrade arrest her?"

"Yes."

"So this fiasco wasn't 'inconvenient' for you at all!" John said, remembering Sherlock's word he had used.

"Yes, my apologies. It was rather convenient after all. I told you, John, you really do help me on my cases. Once you're upright again - hopefully in twenty minutes or less - I've got a new case for us. So, do heal quickly. Please."

"I'll try," John sighed, but nevertheless he beamed at his friend.

 **I thought this non-graphic chapter would be good after the last very graphic one. Thank you Starcross123 for this wonderful chapter idea! Don't forget to leave a review with a suggestion for an illness / experiment gone wrong / injury to Sherlock or John!  
Note: I couldn't find overdose symptoms of Novocaine online, nor could I find how long it would take for the symptoms to get worse, so I just used the "side effect" symptoms and had them take longer than how long it would actually take. Sorry if it's extremely off!**


	28. Smoked - John

**I have two important notes:**

 **First, I've got a bunch of chapters lined up right now (thank you so much everyone who sent in a suggestion!). I will be writing everyone's, but due to the large amount it might just take a bit - but I won't skip anyone's!**

 **Also, this the first chapter I'm doing that's a sort of behind the scenes of a canon event. This will take place after the bonfire in TEH.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. All rights go to Moffatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

 **Thanks to DisappearingKangaroo for this story prompt!**

 **Also, thanks to Ariana Devere's transcript of the scene, which definitely helped me write it!**

* * *

"Move! Move, move, move, move!" Sherlock was bellowing at the crowd that was standing in shock around the bonfire, from which faint cries of help could be heard. He sprinted towards the fire and began to rip pieces of wood away where he could hear John's voice. The sound of wood crackling and splintering only made him move quicker. He'd seen fire victims before, corpses burned and sooty, and he'd thought nothing of it. Now, he could hardly think straight (that wasn't good, he'd have to practice his disciplined thinking in stressful situations. If John was alright, that would be his next experiment).

At last, he could see John's figure, and he heaved wood away - grabbed John's arm - and dragged him out of the fire. His friend's limp form didn't move as he brought him out of the flaming wood.

John was dazed, blinking rapidly, as Sherlock pulled him away from the heat and to safety with Mary.

"John? John!" Sherlock panicked, patting his friend's face. No, no, he'd just gotten back, he wouldn't let John die. He couldn't. He'd only just gotten back! Now, watching John lie there, nearly unconscious, an image surface in his mind, one he didn't particularly favor. Lying on the pavement with John's face above him, the red blood damp in his hair, staring blankly upward yet being able to see every expression of anguish on his best friend's face, John frantically checking his pulse, and crying as people pulled him away…

No, he couldn't think about that, because John would be okay. He would. Mary had already called an ambulance.

"John, stay with me!" Sherlock demanded, unsure if he should be keeping John awake. John was the doctor! He would know, if he wasn't the one who was almost smoked to death!

"Can't… breathe…" John muttered, his chest rising and falling far too quickly. He coughed violently, his body shaking from the exertion. Sherlock held his shoulders, hardly aware that Mary was crouched next to him.

"John, it's all right. Take a deep breath… stop hyperventilating!" he cried out. "John!"

John's face and hands were scalded. Sweat was beaded at his forehead and his eyes, open and blank, were red. Soot covered his clothing.

Mary held John's head. "Come on, John, measure your breaths," she said in a calm voice. "Easy breaths. You're alright now."

John's eyes focused a bit more. He glanced at Sherlock and then at Mary, and his breaths became slightly more even.

"Sherlock, the ambulance is here!" Mary said, relieved, and within a minute John was being fitted with an oxygen mask. He began to relax, his breaths becoming easier and slower.

"Sherlock?" John asked dizzily. "Are you… alright?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused. "Of course I'm alright! John, you nearly just burned to death!"

Mary clutched John's hand. "We're on our way to the hospital. You'll be okay."  
"Oh," John mumbled. His gaze was flickering around the ambulance until his eyes met Sherlock's. "You pulled me out," he said blatantly. "It was you. You dragged me out of there. You… care."

"Well, if you'd died, then Lestrade would have to deal with yet another corpse," Sherlock said, disgruntled, discarding the mere thought of considering himself as 'caring'.

"See, Sherlock, you're really sentimental, deep down," Mary said, smiling sarcastically at him and putting her hand on his shoulder. "I knew it all along."

"I'm not sentimental," Sherlock said, drawing his tall posture and reassuming the emotional distance he usually kept. Mary immediately withdrew her hand. John was watching them and he coughed again, his chest violently heaving at the rejection of the smoke inhalation.

"Mary's right," he said weakly, having not caught the sarcasm, then added, almost drunkenly, "You're my best friend, Sherlock." Sherlock visibly softened slightly in response.

"Where… are we going?" John asked suddenly, blinking quickly. His hand felt the oxygen mask and his eyes widened.

"Sherlock!" he said in a small voice. "Why is there… an… oxygen… an oxygen… mask?" He looked vaguely terrified.

"John, I understand your memory is less than commendable, especially compared to mine, but this seems excessive," Sherlock said bluntly. "I _just_ pulled you out of a bonfire. How do you not remember? I might have to demote your intelligence from acceptable to tolerable."

"Sherlock!" Mary reprimanded. She considered John, contemplating the confusion. "Oh! He might have been…" her voice trailed off. Sherlock understood immediately.

"John, what happened? What were you doing right before you were put in the fire?"  
"I… don't remember," John said, his breaths getting faster again as his trembling hand felt the oxygen mask on his face.

"Think, then!"

John looked rather alarmed at Sherlock's aggression. "Wait… I… think I was, I was… walking. I was… outside. Two men came. They…" he couldn't find the words and gestured at his neck.

"Drugged you," Sherlock concluded. "I suppose I can forgive your lack of mental functionality, then. You're lucky."

"You'll forgive me? Even though I was… smoked?" John asked, his eyes closing now, looking peaceful.

"Yes, John. I'm very glad you're alright."  
"That's good," John muttered in response, and despite the circumstances a small smile played at his lips through the oxygen mask.

 **Oops. That was much shorter than I expected it to be. Oh well, I still enjoyed writing it. Thanks again to DisappearingKangaroo and please favorite / follow / review, I'd be so so grateful! Thank you for reading!**


	29. Concussion - Sherlock

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to paula. for giving me this story idea!  
Note: I'm accepting suggestions for chapter ideas, so please feel free to leave a prompt in a review! I've got several lined up right now, so if you suggested one to me, I will be writing it as soon as I can!**

* * *

"The husband murdered her," Sherlock announced at the crime scene, which was the inside of a couple's home.

Lestrade pinched the bridge of nose. "Okay. I believe you, but how?! He was out of town!"  
"No. He deceived everyone. They were a con artist team. They've got books all around here on persuasion and influence," Sherlock said, gesturing around. "Not to mention both were unemployed and they somehow have a trunk full of money." He now pointed at the trunk filled with bills. They'd found it near the wife's dead body.

"How do you know that money isn't inherited?" Lestrade asked. "Because, you know, if you're right about them being con artists, then I've got to have the husband charged with both murder and fraud."

"It's not inherited. The bills are bent at odd angles and faded differently so I don't think that this money has been kept together for long - it came from many separate places. Furthermore, I thought you would have noticed the strange clothing in the woman's closet," Sherlock said assertively, and then looking meaningfully over to the open closet door where the dead wife's clothes were kept.

"What about her clothes?" John asked, intrigued.

"They're too different. Too much variation in style and color."

"But everyone does that," John protested. "You can't prove that she had multiple aliases or something just by the clothes-"

"John, this is where the balance of probability comes into play! Think about it! You always wear jumpers, I always wear button-downs, Mrs. Hudson always wears her… her…" He flapped his hand vaguely to describe the clothing Mrs. Hudson wore.

"But a con artist?!"

"Sherlock, we're going for evidence around the rest of the house," Lestrade said, and he followed the other team members out of the bedroom. Sherlock and John were left in there, Sherlock still attempting to explain his reasoning.

"I believe you, Sherlock," John cut in. "How do you even observe things like that? I mean, that's incredible."

"Anyone can do it, John. Notice the details and infer what they indicate," Sherlock said, looking rather pleased with himself. "Anyway, the husband did it - he's excellent at deceiving, that's what they do - because he wanted to take all of the money himself."

Sherlock was about to sweep out of the room before pausing in front of the husband's closed closet door.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the husband is still here," the detective reasoned, and opened the closet door. In the blink of an eye, there was a resounding crack through the bedroom as a wooden bat swung forward viciously. Sherlock toppled to the floor and a man sprinted by. John sprinted after him and down the stairs, hollering to Lestrade that the husband was coming down. Once the con man had realized he was trapped, he stopped putting up a fight, and once Lestrade was handcuffing him, John was automatically back upstairs to be at Sherlock's side.

He wasn't unconscious, but struggling to stand, leaning heavily on the wall. John immediately had his arm around his friend.

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted, squinting at John with evident confusion. "What happened?"

"You were hit in the head with a bat," John said, noticing Sherlock's squinting and quickly shutting off the light. "No doubt you got a concussion."

He helped Sherlock down the stairs, dearly hoping that he wouldn't be passing out, and crossed the back of the room quickly in hopes to go unnoticed for Sherlock's best interests; he was aware that the detective detested appearing weak in front of his coworkers.

Lestrade noticed, however.

"He alright?" he asked John, frowning at Sherlock, who was swaying and would have fallen if John wasn't holding him up.

"Concussion. I'm just going to bring him back to Baker Street," John said. Lestrade nodded, looking slightly concerned, but said no more as they took a cab.

"I've got a headache, John," Sherlock informed him, clutching his head as they bumped down the road. His tone was the same, and if John wasn't able to see Sherlock, he would have thought his friend was his usual superior self. But one glance at him disproved this: Sherlock was pale, a mild expression of nausea, and still swaying slightly even in his seat dizzily.

"Mrs. Hudson!" John called once they were in Baker Street. "Could you help me?"

Mrs. Hudson arrived. "Oh, no, what happened?" she asked, putting her hand gently on Sherlock's arm, who was so preoccupied with his headache that he didn't bother to shake his arm away.

"Concussion. Could you help me get him up the stairs?" John asked, and together they brought Sherlock to the top of the stairs where he promptly fell unconscious, still supported by his flatmate and landlady.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. "I'll make you boys dinner, don't worry about getting anything!" She bustled down the stairs once they had gotten Sherlock into his bed. John put his blanket on him, and deciding there wasn't much else to do, left with Sherlock's door open in case he needed him.

"John!" came Sherlock's voice after twenty minutes. John set down his newspaper and went to check on his friend, reminded forcibly of the time Sherlock was drugged by Irene Adler.

Sherlock was out of bed, stumbling over to the door. "John, I forgot! I had an experiment in progress-"

"It's okay, Sherlock, you can finish it another time."

"-that I want to finish!"  
John gripped his arm and led him over to the couch. "You've got to rest, mate. You got a concussion."

"I know, John! But-"

"You're going to rest," John said firmly. Sherlock took one glance at him, saw he was serious, and slumped onto the couch in defeat. John ensured that he was comfortable before turning for his book and sitting down again. Once he had sat, Sherlock was already rosining his bow.

"Sherlock, won't that aggravate your headache…?" John asked, unsure.

"No," Sherlock said simply, lifting the violin up to his chin. He began to play a harmonious tune that filled the flat with a calm warmth. He was playing continuously for a full thirty minutes before abruptly stopping.

John opened his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd close them.

"Why'd you stop?" he said, genuinely disappointed.

Sherlock stiffly tucked the violin away and put the bow back, his movements looking pained.

"Are you alright?" John asked, concerned, and that was when Sherlock began to tremble. John swore; he was so stupid, of course he should have brought Sherlock to the hospital for the concussion! Why on earth did he think it would be alright for them to just go home?! Now he was having a seizure, and it was his fault, but John blocked those thoughts as he ran to Sherlock's side, who was slumped in his chair, shaking uncontrollably.

John barely had time to start offering encouragement to his friend when the seizure stopped. He let out a sigh of relief that it had been quick.

Sherlock's gaze was flickering about for several minutes before landing on John's face. His words were slightly slurred, but with a confident tone he asked, "Now can I finish the experiment?"

"What?! No!" John cried out. "You just had a bloody seizure!"

"And I finished. I despise allowing my body to inhibit me from my cerebral pursuits."

"This time, it is," John said, pushing him back into the chair. "You can do it tomorrow, if you want."

"But-"

"Tomorrow!" John repeated, turning so that Sherlock wouldn't see him smiling.

 **I think that I wrote the seizure as too brief. I'm aware that they're more serious than how I portrayed it in this chapter, but I wanted the overall chapter to be less life threatening because so many of my stories nearly kill John and Sherlock :) Thank you so so much for reading! I'd be so so grateful if you please follow / favorite / leave a review! Thanks so much!**


	30. Cut - Sherlock and John

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 for this prompt!**

* * *

"I've got tickets!" Sherlock announced, much too gleefully for it to be something _normal_ , slapping two stubs of paper onto the counter. John eyed them warily.

"Where to?"

"The circus," Sherlock said indifferently, picking up his violin and bow. He began to play a resounding, smooth tune.

John paused. "Care to elaborate?"  
Sherlock gave John a patronising expression, pointedly putting his bow down. "John, as you may not have noticed because you aren't the most observant, I'm busy. If you really want to know the details, then just read the tickets."

John responded to Sherlock's rude tone with a glare and proceeded to pick the tickets up.

"Tonight?!" he said. "Sherlock, I told you I'd be out tonight!"  
"Not doing anything that you can't cancel," Sherlock said, putting his violin down again.

"It's a date!"

"Exactly. You can cancel it."

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, I've practically been spending more time with you than I have with Mary. She's my wife, I can't just go gallivanting off with you on the night we agreed to go out for dinner together."

"You sound as though you're trying to convince yourself," Sherlock said, looking bored. "Just invite Mary, then."

"She's got a shift at work at seven, after our planned date."

Sherlock sighed, flopping into his armchair dramatically. "John, this is an important murder case comprising of a serial killing clown. The circus is in town and by tomorrow they're going to be in Wales. I can't do it alone, I need my blogger."

John surveyed Sherlock. "Alright," he said, defeated. "But I want you to apologise profusely to Mary when I call her."

"That's perfectly fine," Sherlock said happily, clearly satisfied that his case had taken priority over John's date with his wife.

John picked up his mobile and called Mary, explaining to her that he and Sherlock had an important case. Mary agreed to cancelling the date without any hesitation (Sherlock muttered something about Mary hoping it would be cancelled anyway because she had a long day already and her response was much too quick for her to be disappointed), and then John held out the phone to Sherlock, who said something along the lines of "Sorry, but your date would have been quite boring, really."

* * *

At six, Sherlock and John were amongst the throttling crowd in front of the ticket booth, waiting to get in. John had to admit that he was enjoying the atmosphere, once he had gotten over the guilt that he'd cancelled a date with his wife to hang out with his best friend, because it was lively and dynamic. Everyone was laughing and excited to watch the circus perform.

That it, everyone except for Sherlock. The detective had his collar up snug against his neck and his scarf was also tied tightly. His usual expression of disdain was accompanied by discomfort, and he had his arms wrapped around himself, leaning away every time someone was jostled near him.

"Don't like crowds?" John asked, rather enjoying being the confident one for once.

"Brilliant, John, how ever did you observe that?" Sherlock retorted, wincing slightly as loud music from a live band inside the tent began to resonate throughout.

"It'll be better once we have our seats," John assured him, and they finally got into the massive circus tent. They found their seats quickly, which were near the back. John dearly hoped that they wouldn't see anyone they knew or it would really make them look like they were on a date.

"So," John broached as they sat, waiting for the performance to begin, "How are we going to go about catching this clown?" He looked at Sherlock expectantly, then added, "I hope you're not planning on having us ambush him in front of everyone."

"No. We're going to sneak into the dressing rooms and attack," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Actually, you'll be heading down there first to catch him off guard and hopefully tackle him. I'll be there immediately after you do that with handcuffs."

John frowned. "What?! Why aren't we just going together?"

"For one, he knows I'm onto him, and will certainly recognize me. He won't expect you, and once he sees you, it'll take him longer to realize you know he's the murderer. He won't fight back at first because he'll be surprised. Second…" Sherlock's voice trailed off.

"Second?" John prompted.

"Nevermind," Sherlock brushed it off abrasively, turning away and pulling out his phone. "Let's have you go into the dressing rooms at six thirty, and I'll join at six forty.

"Are you afraid of clowns?" John asked, grinning slightly.

"What? No!" Sherlock snapped too quickly. John just smiled to himself and stood.

"Alright, so I'll go get him, and then you'll be there to handcuff him?" John asked, smoothing his shirt out. "Is he, like, trained in martial arts or something? Should I expect him to fight back well?"

"He's a clown, John, I doubt he knows much," Sherlock said confidently. "Good luck."

"Right," John said, a bit nervous, and left for the dressing rooms. Fortunately, it was easy to get in them, because no one expected that someone would just walk in. He ducked behind the racks of costumes and saw a clipboard on the desk, grabbing it as a precaution in case anyone suspected him - he could claim he was administering something or other.

John glanced over to where there was a group of people in tights preparing to head out for the show. No clown.

The makeup department! The clown must be there, John reasoned, and he found it quickly, unsurprised to see the clown (it was dumb luck that he was alone) examining his painted face in the mirror. He didn't seem to be too large of a man, either.

John wandered up behind him.

"Hello," he said cheerfully. "I'm a reporter and we want a word on what it's like to be… um… in the clown industry. I mean, the circus. Industry." He cursed himself; clearly, improvisation was not his forte.

The clown turned around. "Alright," he obliged. John uncapped the pen that was attached to the clipboard.

"Okay, first, um, what's the best part of being a clown?" John asked.

The clown furrowed his eyes. "I suppose making people laugh," he decided. "The children especially."

John wrote down what he said quickly.

"And… if you, um, close your eyes, where do you see yourself in ten years?" John said, hoping that it wasn't too far of a stretch. The clown considered, shutting his eyes obediently (that was easier than John thought), and without further ado John tackled him to the floor. The clown gasped, the wind knocked out of him, and John was about to pin him when he thrust his head forward against John's, making him stagger backwards. John sent a punch at his chin, who took it but was quick to retaliate with a kick to the legs. Well. This was more difficult than planned, John thought, hoping that Sherlock would be there soon. He was about to pull out his gun (he should have just done that in the beginning) to have the clown freeze, but as he dug in his pocket, the clown had already pulled a knife from his own pocket and was wielding it.

"Don't move, or I'll throw this at your heart," the clown breathed, slowly bringing the knife closer to John.

He was so close, too, to pulling his gun out. John reluctantly stopped, drawing his hand out and putting both in the air.

"That's better," the clown snarled, and brought the knife to John's throat, pinning him against the wall. "Now, tell me, _reporter,_ what do you know?"

"I know that you're a clever man who's wasting his life as a clown and ruining it by murdering," John said, and the clown pushed him against the wall harder, now touching the edge of the blade to his neck. Footsteps suddenly came into the room.

"Well, John, I had thought you'd do better," Sherlock said, sounding mildly irritated. "I wouldn't have had you cancel your date if I'd known you'd be so useless."

John scowled at his friend from his position against the wall.

The clown was breathing heavily. "You two work together, eh?" he asked. There was a strange façade created by the makeup on his face that made it look like he was smiling; past the makeup, he had a terrible frown.

"Yes, we're colleagues. I was made aware of your little killings, so I had John here come to incapacitate you - which he failed at doing."  
"He does sound rather pointless," the clown said.

"Remarkably so," Sherlock said in agreement.

"Why don't I just dispose of him then?" the clown asked, pressing the knife into John's throat harder. John could feel the skin break slightly. In that instant, Sherlock's veneer crumbled and he moved forward slightly.

"Ah, interesting. Is he your friend? Your boyfriend?" the clown asked. "You don't seem to actually think he's useless."

"Just on occasion," Sherlock replied, his cold disposition regained. "Do what you want. I couldn't care less."  
"Fair enough," the clown said, and pressed the knife deep against John's throat. He cried out and could feel the steady bleeding going down his neck.

"No!" he could hear Sherlock yell, and there was a sudden raucous crash as the detective and killer tumbled into the vanity. John leapt into action, yanking out his gun and slamming it into the clown's head. Instantly the clown crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Sherlock handcuffed him immediately and texted Lestrade.

"Are you alright?" John asked, pressing his hand against his bleeding neck (fortunately, the clown hadn't hit the jugular). "Sherlock?"

"I'm fine," the detective said distractedly.

"You crashed into the vanity with a knife-wielding murderer!"  
"And I hardly think that justifies panicking. I sustained a slight cut to my hand, nothing more."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand. How on earth had he not noticed that already? A deep cut, right down the center of his palm, was staining his hand red with blood.

"That'll need stitches," he proclaimed. "Let's get you to the hospital."

"What about your cut?"

"I'm fine," John insisted, even though he knew it was gushing blood, not to mention he was feeling slightly dizzy. "The hospital's across the street. Let's go."

They walked out of the dressing rooms and past the crowd of people (who stared at the two bloodied men).

"Shame we couldn't see the show," John said, shaking his head, and then gasping slightly at the stabbing pain when he shifted his neck. He clutched at it more, aware that he looked like someone tried to decapitate him. Sherlock was holding his own hand very tightly, which had nearly been cut in two, it seemed, but the only indication that he was in pain was the flush in his face. They went into the hospital (to the shock of the nurses at the two bloody men) and left with stitches nearly two hours later.

"This is ridiculous," John grumbled. "This all sounds so stupid, honestly. I cancelled a nice dinner with my wife to tackle a clown who cut me in the neck and you in the hand."

"I didn't enjoy it," Sherlock declared.

"What?! But I thought you were excited for this! You love catching criminals!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, John. You act like me know but, but clearly you don't. That was an incredibly dull case. No mystery to it at all; why on earth would I enjoy a case that involves a stupid criminal?"

"Because you're insane?"

"No, because I was bored and it was better than listening to you recount your boring date with your boring wife."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "You can't - don't say-"

"Please stop stuttering. You know perfectly well that I enjoy both you and Mary's company despite your inevitable dull nature."

John rubbed the stitches on his neck. "I think that you're just in a bad mood because you didn't get to show off in this case - no fancy deductions, no use of your big brain - and you sustained an injury. That counts as a failure in your book, doesn't it?"

"Would you call that a success?"

"No," John admitted, and together they reentered Baker Street until the next case.

 **Once again, I felt the need to do a chapter where they bled quite heavily, but it wasn't enough to be life threatening. Sort of in the middle. I think that not nearly killing them every chapter makes it more interesting when it is a particularly nasty injury. Thank you so much for reading, and please don't forget to favorite / follow / or leave a review with a prompt for either an injury, illness, or experiment gone wrong to occur to either John or Sherlock! Thanks again to Starcross123 as well!**


	31. Chained - John

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 for this prompt!  
This chapter is going to be an AU in which Sherlock was more preoccupied with getting John out of the well (and showing what happened getting him out) than with finding Eurus. Along with Starcross123, I wish that we could have seen more of that bond between Sherlock and John. So hopefully this will compensate!**

* * *

"John!" Sherlock said loudly as a sudden echoing white noise filled the sound of the well that John was trapped in.

"Yeah, it's flooding," John said, a hint of defeat in his voice. "The well is flooding."

Sherlock gesticulated towards the screen even though John couldn't see him, saying forcefully, "Try as long as possible not to drown!"

"What?" came John's voice, but it was difficult to hear over Eurus's incessant singing and the pounding of water tumbling into the well.

"I'm going to find you. I _am_ finding you!" Sherlock asserted, sprinting out of the house and ignoring Eurus's pleas and cries. The girl on the plane was shrieking and screaming " _It's leaning over, the whole plane!"_ but Sherlock ignored her; what was most important now was finding his best friend.

* * *

The water was up to John's knees. He was bent down, furiously attacking the chains with his hands to the point of drawing blood, but that was certainly a better alternative to drowning. They were rusty and old, and John doubted that they could sustain pounding from a rock. He searched the walls of the well for a loose rock for a rock but there were none, and then tried using a bone that was on the floor, but it was too brittle and snapped after one whack at the chain.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "I'm chained to the floor and there's nothing to break the chain! I just need a strong rock, or axe, or… anything! Are you almost here?"

"I'm on my way!" came Sherlock's voice, which sounded like he was running. "I'll be there in two minutes! The well is on the other side of Musgrave!"

"Just… hurry," John said flatly; the water had moved from his knees to his waist in a minute. Not to mention it was ice cold, as though it had been taken directly from the ocean. He continued his futile attempts to break the chain with his fists when the sudden sound of footsteps made him look up. Sherlock's curly head was at the top of the well.

"Sherlock!" John said in relief, the water line at his neck now.

"Hang on, John, I've got to stop the water then tie the rope!" Sherlock said, but John couldn't hear most of what he was saying due to the roar of the water. He watched nervously as Sherlock's head vanished, hoping that the detective had a solid plan.

He kicked furiously at the chains, diving underwater and slamming them with his hands.

 _Break, you bloody…_

He surfaced, coughing, to find that he had to tilt his head upwards to breathe; it was nearly over his head. That was when the roar suddenly stopped and the last bit of water dripped into the well. John hardly dared to breathe from relief, his chin tilted backwards completely in order to breathe. _If only he were as tall as Sherlock._

Sherlock reappeared and threw a rope down; John caught it.

"I've tied it to a tree," Sherlock confirmed. "And I have a jackknife, will that do?"

"Yes! Yes, that's perfect!" John shouted up to his friend. The jackknife came tumbling down into the well and John opened it. The blade was sharp. He ducked underwater, ignoring the knives of cold on his body, and began to hack at the rusty, thin chains with the blade. He supposed that it wouldn't cut the metal itself, but the force itself could be enough to snap them.

The first chain snapped. John pulled his foot free from it, and surfaced to take a breath before going at his other foot. This one wouldn't break. He surfaced and dove underwater, hacking at it relentlessly.

"John, I can come down and help," Sherlock offered from his position at the top of the well.

"No," John said firmly. "There's no point. If I can't get it, then you won't get it," he said, because Sherlock was as - if not less - strong as John. "Besides, if there's a rope complication, then we'll both be stuck here."

"Lestrade's coming. I managed to find a phone and dial him," Sherlock added before John had disappeared underwater again. He slammed the knife against the chain over and over, when suddenly it too snapped.

His feet free, John grabbed the rope.

"You got it?" Sherlock called, delight audible in his voice, and John began to climb the rope with his feet on the well's wall like a mountain climber. Sherlock pulled the rope up as he did so, and he scaled the wall, tumbling onto the grass once he'd gotten out.

"Thanks, mate," John said, coughing and shivering violently. "That was… cold water."

Sherlock directed John to take off his wet jacket and clothes and handed him his warm Belstaff. John took it gratefully, for once glad that Sherlock always wore that bloody coat and scarf.

"How… do you even wear this… in… the s-summer?" John asked, his teeth chattering. "It's really warm."

"You're forgetting, John, that your body temperature is lower, so it will feel warmer than it actually is," Sherlock said simply, but for once his voice was lacking the indignant, superior, _How did you not know that?_ tone. They began to start back to Musgrave Hall when police lights and a helicopter arrived.

"Lestrade," John and Sherlock said simultaneously, gratified at the very sight of the detective inspector. Shivering slightly less, John followed Sherlock to the officers.

 **Since this was such a short chapter, I'll probably do another one tonight (hopefully). Hope you liked it, and thanks again to Starcross123!  
Please favorite / follow and leave a review with a suggestion for an injury / illness! Thank you so so much!**


	32. Warm - Sherlock

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to Ava for suggesting this prompt to me!**

* * *

"Supposed to be a hot day," John announced over breakfast. "38 degrees. There's a heatwave going through London."

Sherlock flipped the page of his book with unnecessary vigor. "Why do I care?"

"You could be nice for once. 38 is almost a record high."

"As long as it does impede my daily activities," Sherlock drawled. "I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in the weather. It's dull. Please don't talk to me about it."

John put his cup of tea down angrily. "Did you not just hear what I said?!"

"I didn't pay attention. Presumably it had little significance to me," Sherlock said without looking up from his book.

"I said, you could be nice for once! Listen. No, listen!" John said, his voice louder, and this time Sherlock looked up with an expression of irritation. "How would you like it if I were like you? You would hate it!"

"I wouldn't even notice," Sherlock asserted. "I assure you, John, I hardly even hear what you're saying or notice what you're doing most of the time."

"Oh, really?" John fumed. "I bet you'd get tired of me being you after ten minutes!"

"I highly doubt it."

John glared at him, then stalked into the kitchen and grabbed the dish of strange coloured mold. Sherlock glanced up and his eyes didn't waver from his friend this time.

"John, that experiment is… a very important mold… don't be rash," Sherlock said, slightly anxiously, setting his book down.

"But if I'm Sherlock Holmes, then I don't have any regard at all to other people's wishes or personal items," John said. He opened the trash can and hovered the dish of mold above it.

"Okay, John, I get your point!" Sherlock said, defeated.

"Why should I care what anyone else thinks if I'm better than everyone else?" John continued, and began to tip the dish. He paused, mold nearly slipping out of its place, and there was a beat where Sherlock remained, frozen, watching John hopelessly. John glanced at the mold dish again then back at his best friend's disappointment. There was a beat.

"I can't do it," John grumbled, setting the mold back on the counter. "I try to be you for one bloody minute and I can't bring myself to throw out your stupid experiment."

"That's why I bother to keep you around," Sherlock said, looking much relieved that his mold was safely back on the counter and not in the wastebin. "So, what were you saying, John? There's a record heatwave of 38 degrees today? Well, I'm glad you told me, because there's a possible experiment I could conduct with the extreme heat and skin deterioration…"

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, you don't have to fake it."

"There is a heat experiment I want to do!" Sherlock said earnestly when the doorbell suddenly rang through the flat.

"Client!" John and Sherlock said simultaneously, and John went downstairs to let the client up. She was middle-aged, dressed nicely, and had dark hair.

Sherlock settled into his armchair.

"Hello," the woman began. "I'm Betsy Kinney. I've… come under horrible circumstances, but I didn't feel it was appropriate to bring it to Scotland Yard."

"Continue," Sherlock prompted, waving his hand through his hair.

Kinney's voice shook. "My dog, Walnut… he usually sleeps on my bed with me, but I leave my door open in case he wants to, you know, roam the house. I woke up this morning and he wasn't in my room, so I began to search the house, and the door to my son's old room was locked. I was panicking, because I couldn't find Walnut, so I broke down the door and…" Kinney's voice cracked. "Walnut was _dead_. Lying on the floor-"

"What sort of lock?" Sherlock interrupted.

"It needs a key. I live in an older home, so it's not the type where you can just push the button and it locks; it requires a key," Kinney explained. "It can only be locked from the inside. The windows were locked, too."

Sherlock clapped his hands together excitedly. "A locked room case, John!" he said enthusiastically. "Brilliant! Haven't had one of these in weeks!"

"Now's not the time, Sherlock," John muttered, throwing a glance to Kinney, who had tears streaming down her face. Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat.

"Take us to your house. Please," he said. Kinney obliged.

"I've got a cab waiting," she said, "so you can come-"

"We'll take our own cab," Sherlock interjected. "No doubt you'll be emotional. Emotions won't help me solve the case. You can leave now. Head back, and we'll follow. What's your address?"

She told him.

"Good," Sherlock said, a smile on his lips from his happiness with the case. "Don't tamper with any more evidence." Kinney nodded and left.

"Let's go, John!" Sherlock said, flinging himself from his chair and grabbing his coat. "The game is-"

"Off!" John said firmly, "Until you take off your coat." He stared meaningfully at the detective, who was pulling his coat on and reaching for his scarf.

"But this is the game!" Sherlock protested futilely.

"Look, mate, I've been in Afghanistan. I know what hot is. London rarely gets this warm and I guarantee that you'll be boiling. Leave the coat and scarf here; it's bad enough that you're wearing long sleeves and pants."

"If I take off the scarf can I still wear the coat?" Sherlock asked. John had to suppress a laugh because his friend sounded like a two year old.

"Only if you drink some water," he said, using this opportunity of leverage.

"Water?!"

"Yes, water. There's this thing called dehydration. You may not have heard of it."

"I only drink water every couple of days," Sherlock said defiantly, "and I had a glass before bed the other night."

"Sherlock, it's 38 degrees out!"

"I don't want water," Sherlock said stubbornly.

John shook his head. "You know what? When you're dehydrated and have a headache, don't complain to me."

"I won't complain at all. I never complain," Sherlock scoffed, and led the way out of the flat into the scorching sun.

* * *

Kinney's home was relatively near Baker Street, so it wasn't a long ride. After examining the exterior of the house, Kinney led Sherlock and John to the room with the dead dog. It was on the third floor, and the heat increased with every flight of stairs they went up until it was stiflingly muggy. Sherlock went into the room followed by John.

"What's the dog's cause of death?" he asked John.

"Um, it looks like he had a seizure… he's an old dog, too… but I can't be sure," John said uncertainly.

"John, you're a doctor! You're supposed to be able to diagnose death!"

John snorted. "First, being a doctor doesn't mean I can always 'diagnose death'. Second, I'm not a veterinarian!"  
"Oh, please, it's the same principles," Sherlock said.

John examined the dog more. "No, I'm pretty sure it was a seizure. Look, he's got foam around his mouth, and his legs are in a position as though he were treading water… look, his tongue is bloody from where he bit himself… I think he died from a seizure."

Kinney trembled from where she was standing in the doorframe.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "An accidental death in a locked room that could only be locked by a human!"

He paused suddenly, exclaiming "Oh!", and closed his eyes.

"What's he doing?" Kinney asked, confused.

"Thinking," John said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock's eyes flew open a minute later.

"It's your husband. Your ex-husband, actually."

"Excuse me?" Kinney said. "How would he do that-"

"It's simple! I was able to solve it after five minutes of being in here!" Sherlock said dramatically.

John sighed. "Alright, then, Sherlock, just explain it to us, because we don't understand at all."

Sherlock pointed to Kinney's finger. "First deduction was obvious. You're missing a ring, and the tan line is visible, so recently divorced. Not widowed or you would have kept it on. It's possible that you could have been widowed a long time ago and only just stopped wearing the ring for a new lover, but that's unlikely based on how you haven't had a phone near you at all the entire time I've been with you, and also the factor that you seemed quite alone in this whole affair. A guess, but likely due to the balance of probability."

"What's that got to do with anything?" John asked.

"Everything! Since she's recently divorced, which is also clear from the strange absence of some furniture in a relatively wealthy home, the ex has already moved out and taken his possessions with him. Now, why would this door be locked? You didn't lock it, and I presume you'd have a good memory if you did since you come in this room every day to vacuum it - you're OCD, you don't let anything get dusty - so obviously someone else who has the key came and locked the door from the inside. Who, then? Not a stranger, because this room is empty and I passed several rooms with some expensive jewelry in it - no, a robber wouldn't have come in here. Someone you know, then. If it was a friend, they wouldn't have snuck up without your consent, that'd be quite strange and out of the ordinary. But your ex! If he had reason to come in here, of course he wouldn't tell you, and naturally he'd have a key to it!"

"Why would he naturally have a key to it if she just moved out? Wouldn't she have all the keys to the house now that it's just hers?" John said, bewildered.

"No, of course not, he's given up the main house key, I'm sure, but they were preoccupied with dividing up the furniture between them and it's likely that the key to the third floor bedroom was overlooked, so he still had it."

Kinney shook her head. "It wasn't my ex, he loved that dog! He wouldn't kill Walnut!"

"Not intentionally," Sherlock said. "He was waiting for you to come up here. Possibly to pronounce his love, maybe to assault you; it is unclear at the moment. He took the dog and locked himself in here (he wouldn't want to be caught off guard with you walking in, of course, that's why he locked it) and was going to wait until you came to vacuum, which was inevitable from your habits. However, the dog had a seizure and died while he was in here, and he didn't know what to do, it would look like he murdered the dog! He didn't leave by jumping out of the windows and roof - too high, and even if he did, the ground below is undisturbed, I saw earlier."

"So where is he, then? Teleported?" Kinney asked sarcastically.

"No, don't be dull. He's still in here," Sherlock said, opening the closet door to reveal a small, balding man.

"I'm… sorry, I'm so sorry, but the man has it all right! All of it! I swear, I didn't mean for Walnut to die! It was completely accidental, unrelated!"  
"What were you doing here anyway?! In the middle of the night?!" Kinney thundered back. Sherlock shot a look to John.

"I think we're done here," he said quietly. John nodded, anxious to leave the boiling hot room; he could hardly breathe, and he was even wearing shorts and a tee. Sherlock marched down the stairs with his pants, long-sleeves, and Belstaff.

"You must be hot," John said. "At least drink some water! Please!"

"It's not that hot in here," Sherlock said as they reached the landing of the second floor. "I'm… fine." With that he promptly fell to the floor.

"You idiot," John muttered, immediately bending down to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock? You utter moron!"

Sherlock blinked dizzily. "Admittedly, my mouth is a bit dry," he said.

"What else?" John prompted him, pulling his phone out and hovering his hand above 999. "What hurts, Sherlock? If you've got heat stroke… it's really dangerous, mate!"

"You said not to complain," Sherlock said stubbornly.

"I know what I said!" John said, nearly laughing. "Just - you need to tell me what hurts!"

"Muscles. Head. Nauseous," Sherlock said.

"You've got heat stroke," John said. "You utter moron!" he repeated. Sherlock didn't move, so he began to pull the detective out of his heavy coat and unbutton his shirt. Kinney and her ex were coming down the stairs and he heard her emit a small gasp.

"It's not what it looks like," John yelled up at her, running downstairs and filling a cup of water. He brought it back to Sherlock, who had vomited onto the floor.

"Drink this," he commanded. Sherlock obliged and took a small sip as John directed to Kinney, "His core temperature is somewhere above forty degrees. I need ice packs, cold water, and a sponge! Now!" Kinney ran past her baffled looking ex toward the bathroom to get the supplies. John couldn't help but be reminded of the many heat strokes he treated back in Afghanistan… the desert sun had killed soldiers, it had been so hot.

"Sherlock, keep drinking the water," he said. "It'll be okay."

"I'm not worried," Sherlock muttered. "Don't… call the ambulance."

"I won't have to if you don't pass out," John said grimly, pulling Sherlock's shoes and socks off. "You should've listened to me. See what happens when you don't listen?"

Kinney came back with the ice packs, water, and a thermometer as well. John put the ice on his friend's neck and sponged him with the cold water while taking his temperature.

"Sherlock, your core is 40.4 degrees!" John said, half panicked and half angry. Sherlock kept his eyes open, managing to take a sip every so often, and after twenty minutes his temperature had dropped to 38.8 degrees. They remained there for another thirty minutes before John helped Sherlock stand.

"I can't believe you," John said as they walked to a cab. "I _cannot_ believe you. And you wanted to wear your scarf!"

"I usually have good judgement, John, cut me some slack!" Sherlock said, looking away. "I had a headache for a while, but you said to not complain!"

"Oh, do not blame me," John said, stunned. "You know perfectly well that I didn't mean for you to _give yourself a heat stroke!_ "

"I'll listen to you from now on, John," Sherlock said in a slightly apologetic tone. "Well - I mean - when it's important, because, well, I don't want to listen all the time, but…"

John couldn't stay angry, not when Sherlock was promising to at least listen a bit more than he usually did. He slung his arm around his friend. "It's fine, Sherlock. I don't mind."

 **Thanks so much for reading! Please favorite / follow, it's so much encouragement for me :) Also I'd be so appreciative of any reviews, including suggestions for an injury, illness, or experiment gone wrong! Thanks again to Ava for this prompt!**


	33. Collision - Sherlock

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to paula. for this prompt!**

 **Also, I'd be so so grateful if people could please tell me their opinion to the question below!  
Should I set my chapters:**

 **In between HLV and TST**

 **OR**

 **In between THoB and TRF?**

 **Because I'm uncertain as to whether I should include Mary or not, so please please leave a review or send a PM and let me know your opinion! I'd really appreciate it!**

* * *

"What are you planning on doing now?" John asked over Chinese. Sherlock had just solved a two-week mystery that had kept him busy constantly, so instead of takeaway tonight, they were eating at the restaurant for once. "I mean, now that you've finished this huge thing."

Sherlock picked at his food. "Several clients came during this last case. They all had reasonably fascinating stories. I doubt they'll take more than five hours to solve, but I suppose that's how I'll fill my time since this _brilliant_ case is over."

"It involved seven murders!"

"Exactly!" Sherlock said happily, checking his watch. "John, please do eat quicker. I want to play my violin, conduct a new experiment on you (I promise it's not dangerous), read the new book I got on detecting deception in body language, and I'd prefer to do it all before morning. It's already nine."

"I'm done," John said, pushing his food away. Neither of them had eaten much after having been on such a long case; a feast didn't seem very appetizing.

Sherlock stood, buttoning his suit smoothly (why did he always have to wear bloody dressy clothing?!), tying his scarf around his neck, and pulling his Belstaff on.

"I've got to pay," John said, rolling his eyes at the excessive dressing Sherlock did. "You can go back to Baker Street, if you want. I'll be following shortly."

Sherlock hesitated. "No, I can wait," he said politely, and John felt a surge of pride for his friend, who as of late had been attempting to implement the "manners" John so often told him about. He remained standing, his hands behind his back, and looking rather cold with his tall stature in the cozy restaurant while waiting for John to pay.

Once they had paid, they left the restaurant to find it was much cooler out. Night had settled over the city and the streetlamps illuminated the sidewalks. The moon was visible behind a thin layer of clouds.

There wasn't much traffic, and they were crossing the road when a sudden car came barreling around the corner, at least 65kmh over the speed limit. John hardly had time to process the car; he felt it fly by him only a foot away - he hadn't any time to move - but he could feel himself shouting "Sherlock!" and his only thought was that he dearly hoped Sherlock had somehow had time to move.

There was a deafening crash as the car skidded away and made an abrupt stop in the middle of the street. The door flung open and a middle-aged, drunk man stumbled out, vomiting onto the pavement. John ignored him and ran to Sherlock, who was crumpled in the middle of the street.

 _Oh, no. No, no, no._

"Sherlock!" John yelled, bending down next to him. Fortunately there wasn't any more traffic; he desperately wanted to move his friend out of the street but didn't dare move him until he knew there wasn't any spinal damage.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked, steeling himself back into doctor mode.

 _Now is not the time to panic. Not now, not when Sherlock's hurt._

Sherlock was unconscious. There was blood visible in his curly hair, but nowhere else. A head injury, then, but the extent of the damage John couldn't tell.

 _Please, don't have brain damage, please, please, please, do not have brain damage_ was now occupying his thoughts incessantly as he picked up his skinny friend and carried him over to the sidewalk, phoning an ambulance. John checked Sherlock's pulse; it was too weak.

"Don't die," John breathed. "Come on, Sherlock - you just solved a case, we were just eating out - you were going to play your violin tonight, and there was an experiment - you can do whatever experiment you want on me, I, I don't care, I don't care… whatever experiment you want, just wake up… you can do a song on your violin, I can make tea… " He now felt slightly hysterical as he examined where the bleeding was coming from with trembling hands. "Any experiment you want, Sherlock, just don't have brain damage, don't die… you can't… " He had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting; blood was slowly trickling out of Sherlock's nose and left ear, which was near where the injury was. He seemed to have been clipped and thrown by the car and his head must have smashed against the street.

John could barely see what he was doing because anguish was blurring his thoughts. A flashback of Sherlock lying in a similar position, on the sidewalk, blood clotted in his dark hair, came back to him, but he shoved it down - that time, Sherlock didn't have a pulse… this time, he did… he needed to focus. Why was he crumbling? He was John, John Watson, army doctor… he'd treated many people with their limbs blown off, heavy bruising, and frankly, looked mangled…

Sherlock was still unconscious, his pulse steady though weak.

"Come on, Sherlock, come on mate," John pleaded. "The ambulance is coming, wake up! It's coming, you can wake up now!"

His friend's head was swelling profusely on the left side. John touched it lightly; it felt hot and bloody. "Oh, no… Sherlock! Answer me, are you okay! Please, wake up!"

The drunk man that had hit Sherlock came stumbling over, gasping apologies and hovering over the detective.

"I'm… I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I was driving, he was in the way… it wasn't my fault, I swear, I wasn't driving… I mean, I was driving… and he was there," the man stammered in a drunken state, stinking of alcohol. Fury pulsed in John's temples and he barely noticed that he was standing, the next second, he had swung his fist and the man stumbled back with a flash of red on his nose. John punched him again, feeling his knuckles collide with the man's temples.

"Get - away - now," John threatened. "Leave before I hurt you more."

The man turned and ran, clutching his nose.

John continued to murmur reassurance to Sherlock (or himself, by now he wasn't sure) until finally, finally, finally, sirens came down the street. Sherlock remained unmoving.

"Help him!" John cried out. "His head got hit, I think he's got a skull fracture, his left ear is bleeding, it's bruised and swollen - he's, he's unconscious, and his pulse, his pulse is weak - but - but steady, and…"

There was a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, mate. You've gotta calm down, or they'll give you a sedative."

"I'm fine! It's Sherlock, Sherlock needs help!" He couldn't understand, shouldn't they all be attending to Sherlock? He didn't leave his friend's side and kept his fingers on his pulse.

"He's bleeding, too much, much too much," John said, barely aware of how he was stumbling over his words. A sudden absence of the comforting thumps took a moment for him to process, and when it did, he felt all his blood leave his face.

"His pulse, it's stopped!" he could hear himself bellowing. "No - you've got to - resuscitate him, save him, let me - I can do it -" He struggled to get to Sherlock's pale, limp body, but hands were holding him back. He tried to wrangle his way out of them but they were firm.

"No, please," John said, his throat dry. "He's my friend, let me through!" The impact and startling realization of what he just said brought back another flashback, but he mustn't think about that - not now -

Sherlock was being pulled onto a stretcher - sirens were wailing - but he couldn't die, it was only a small smack to the head, right? But even in his panicked state John couldn't convince himself of that… the car had been speeding much too fast… this, this could be lethal… fatal…

"We've got a pulse!" was the next cry that John heard from one of the paramedics, and immediately he slumped over with relief, because Sherlock wasn't dead - not yet-

He noticed the warm blanket around him and was grateful for it, though he didn't think he needed it - he wasn't in shock, right? - and could only watch Sherlock's pulse monitor as they drove to the hospital.

* * *

It took five hours for Sherlock to regain consciousness. John waited in the room, calling his work to let them know his friend was injured and he couldn't come in.

"Sherlock?" he asked gently when his friend's eyes flickered open. "How are you feeling?"

"Head hurts," Sherlock said, rubbing it to find the bandages.

"You fractured your skull. Drunk driver smacked you into the pavement. No - no brain damage," John laughed weakly. "None. A sprained ankle, too, but that's it. You're so lucky, mate. _So_ lucky."

"I didn't get to read my book - or play violin…" Sherlock muttered.

John looked at his watch. "Well, it's two-thirty in the morning, so you'll have all day today to do it."

"A drunk driver?" Sherlock confirmed. "I was hit by a drunk driver? Moron."

John smiled at the typical coldness Sherlock displayed towards anyone he didn't consider on his level. "I think I punched him."

"You did?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

"Yeah, but to be honest, I don't remember too much," John confessed. "Apparently I was in emotional shock or something."

Sherlock snorted. "Now do you understand why I divorce myself from all emotion?" he asked.

"No," John said firmly.

"Well, the next time this happens, maybe you'll begin to realize that emotional shock is not helping you and it would be better to detach yourself from feeling altogether."

John shook his head. "You're insane," he said. "I think it was more so because I had a flashback of - of…" He struggled to get the words out. "When you… jumped."  
Sherlock grew quiet.

"Your hair, your hair was the same - plastered to the sidewalk with blood," John continued, "and your heart stopped. It stopped, Sherlock."

"I truly am sorry, John. I offer you my utmost apologies and I hope you understand that I deeply regret any sorrow that it caused you," Sherlock said seriously.

"Sorry. I know that emotions make you uncomfortable," John said. "What was the experiment that you wanted to do?"

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said, but he looked rather stiff while saying it (that man simply didn't understand feelings!), and then proceeded to explain to John exactly how his experiment would be conducted with an excited light in his eyes.

 **Hooray for a near death chapter! Thanks again to paula. !  
Also, please don't forget to favorite / follow / review and I'd be so grateful if you could please respond to the question that I put at the top of this chapter! Thank you!**


	34. Cardiac Arrest - John

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Warning: Brief references to suicide.**

 **Thanks to Strawberry for this prompt!**

 **Note: I am not a medical professional so please forgive me if I get some details wrong in this chapter!**

 **Also: I had responses to my question in the previous chapter on whether I should include Mary or not, and there were conflicting answers. For this reason I'm going to start putting Mary in every other chapter! :) I don't think I'll be giving her any major role too often, though, because personally I enjoy writing the strong friendship between Sherlock and John best.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

"John, keep your gun on him," Sherlock directed. They were in an abandoned warehouse, having identified the hideout of a masterful murderer. Sherlock seemed much too happy having just solved where the murderer was; now, Lestrade and an ambulance (just in case) were waiting outside the warehouse, waiting for John's cue to come in. As of now, the murderer also had a gun out, and it wasn't an ideal time for more officers to come barging in.

"Look, drop your gun, and no one will get hurt," John tried to convince the man. "There needn't be any shooting in here… I promise I won't shoot you if you don't shoot us."

The murderer swore at them in response and spit at Sherlock's feet. John tensed his gun more.

Sherlock suddenly laughed; it was slightly disconcerting to hear in the warehouse.

"John, this is a two person job! No wonder we had it all wrong!" Sherlock said, putting his hands behind his back.

"Hmm? How so?" John asked, not looking away. The murderer looked slightly concerned now for what Sherlock was going to say.

"This one right here, he's the mastermind behind all of the murders, yes. But he never committed any of them, because it's quite obvious from his hold on the gun that he's left-handed. Our murderer is right handed."

"Oh. Yeah," John said. "That's… relatively simple. How did we not notice this yet?"

"Because we only just saw that this man here is left-handed," Sherlock said calmly. "Now, why wouldn't he just do them himself?" he continued. "I think that you're more afraid of the physical act of murdering, although you can strategize it quite fine."

"That's not true!" the criminal protested. "I'll shoot you, right here, right now!"

"Then why haven't you yet?" Sherlock asked placidly. "Because my friend will shoot you?"  
"Well, yeah!"

"Yet you've already displayed several suicidal signs. The fact that you're not shooting and you're clearly suicidal leads me to believe you're afraid to do the actual murdering yourself."

The man suddenly pulled another weapon from his pocket and aimed it at John; now, there was a gun pointing at Sherlock and at John there was a -

"Taser gun," Sherlock said with mild interest. "You know, I've studied taser guns, but I've never actually seen one in the flesh. Where did you acquire it?"

The murderer didn't answer; his hands were shaking. John could hear Lestrade's voice outside of the warehouse and knew they were anxious to get in.

"Okay, Sherlock, you need to shut up," John began, glancing at the trembling mastermind.

"Furthermore, you've hardly ever held a gun - that much is obvious - so it's unlikely you could hit us from that distance."

"Shut up!" John informed Sherlock firmly.

"If I don't shoot, what will you do?" the mastermind asked carefully.

"We won't shoot back, first of all; I promise that we won't hurt you if you put your weapons down," John said. "The officers outside will take you in for questioning and you'll have to give a statement on what happens-"

"You'll be arrested," Sherlock interrupted carelessly. The criminal paled.

"You're right," the criminal admitted. "I couldn't bring myself to commit the actual murders. I hired a younger man to do the killing for me. But I can still do this."

He shot the taser. There was a beat, and John crumpled to the floor, crying out in pain as the taser hit him directly in the chest. He dropped his gun completely.

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled, and before he took a step the criminal had dropped his taser and sprinted out the back of the warehouse.

Well, now he could only hope Lestrade had covered the back doors.

"John, can you get up?" Sherlock asked hesitantly to John, who was lying on the floor. "John?" There was no answer. "Lestrade!" Sherlock hollered. "Get everyone in here! _Now_!"

He felt John's pulse and was startled to find barely anything. There was a faint thud, then another, then… nothing.

There was the distant sound of Lestrade's team coming in as Sherlock began chest compressions.

"Come on! Lestrade, get the paramedics!" Sherlock commanded. "I need a defibrillator! Now!" He began mouth to mouth.

 _Sentiment,_ Mycroft's voice whispered in the back of his mind. _Look at you. You're doing mouth to mouth, and you claim that you've divorced yourself from feeling?_

Sherlock pressed harder on John's chest. He counted the compressions, desperately waiting for the stupidly slow paramedics to get the defibrillator in there.

 _You don't have friends. Why go to these lengths for a colleague?_ Mycroft's voice continued. Sherlock ignored it and did mouth to mouth again. Two breaths. No pulse.

 _Caring is not an advantage._

One of John's ribs cracked underneath the pressure of the compressions.

"Out of the way, sir!" one of the paramedics was directing suddenly.

"Charging!"

"Get the paddles ready!"

"Clear!"

There was sudden movement as the electrodes were placed on John's chest and an electric shock was administered. There was another beat, similar to the one as the criminal had shot the taser.

"We've got a pulse!" the paramedic shouted.

* * *

"Well, at least there'll be something new to put on the blog," John said resignedly as they entered 221B two days later. "A taser - usually we're nearly getting shot at."

"What are you going to call the case?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. Maybe "The Unexpected Mastermind". You know, because we didn't realize there were two criminals."

Sherlock snorted.

"What?!"

"It just… sounds… stupid."

"You come up with something better, then!" John retorted. "How about you type up the cases?"

"Well, that would make my CPR quite pointless. I let you survive simply because it is more convenient for me to have a blogger."

"Oh, please," John said, smiling. "You're sentimental, and that's your way of convincing yourself that you're not."

"I'm not sentimental. Sentiment is a chemical defect-"

"Found in the losing side, right," John finished. "Yeah, right, you're a sociopath. We've heard it many times. It's okay to admit that you were scared when I didn't have a pulse."

Sherlock didn't respond verbally, but picked up his violin, and began to bow a strong, warm tune that filled the flat with comfort.

 **Sorry I stink at conclusions. Anyway, thanks again to Strawberry for suggesting the defibrillator! Please please leave a review or favorite/follow, it's so encouraging to see! Thanks!**


	35. Bitten - Sherlock

**Warning: Brief mention of drug use.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to Nevaeh for this prompt!**

 **Note: I made quite explicit references to the canon writing by ACD just for fun with the list at the beginning, so please note that much of that isn't my words.**

* * *

"What are you writing?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at John.

"Hmm? Oh, I'm updating a list I made a while back. I threw it in the fire, though, so I don't have the old one," John said. When he had first become flatmates with Sherlock, he had noted his peculiarities, such as having no knowledge whatsoever of philosophy or astronomy. He couldn't quite remember everything that he had put down, but what he had written previously needed rectification since he'd become closer friends with Sherlock.

"I didn't ask about a list you made a while back. What are you writing?" Sherlock repeated, holding a pipette in one hand and honey in the other.

"Just a… list of characteristics for the blog," John said evasively. Sherlock snatched it out of his hand before he could move away and his eyes skimmed the paper.

"First, John, I cannot understand why you would occupy your time with that, and second, no one on your blog will care," Sherlock said, thrusting the paper back at John.

"Yeah, I think people will be interested by it," John countered, smiling, and looking back at the paper.

 **Knowledge of pop culture: Nil**

 **Social skills: Nil**

 **Empathy quotient: Nil**

 **Knowledge of technology: Nil**

 **Financial skills: Feeble, hardly any interest**

 **Knowledge of chemistry: Profound, like always**

 **Knowledge of history: Superior**

 **Writing skills: Excellent, rich vocabulary**

 **Again, plays the violin commendably**

 **Dexterity in sports: Average**

 **Practical knowledge, such as cooking and cleaning: Variable.**

John set his list down to see his friend holding a smoking beaker.

"What are you doing?" he asked, exasperated, standing up to wipe down the counter which had honey all over it.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"I said, what are you doing?" John reiterated. "You know, the least you could do is answer me sometimes-"

"Be quiet, John. It's fairly obvious that I'm _thinking_. You've just disrupted me," Sherlock said, irritated. He paused, gripping the beaker tightly. "I need a case, John!" he proclaimed violently. "It's been a month! A month, John! An entire month with not one client! I don't understand, what are they all doing? Why hasn't anyone been murdering? We need a good homicide, or else I'll-"

"You'll what?" John asked sharply.

"I'll…" Sherlock faltered. "Well, I suppose I'll… travel."

"Travel," John repeated. "You weren't going to say that you were going to resort to drugs, I hope?"  
Sherlock blinked. "No, John, of course not."

"You're lying. I'm not stupid, Sherlock, I can read people too. You always finish with 'Of course not' and use my name whenever you're lying," John said angrily.

Sherlock looked mildly interested. "I suppose I'll have to work on my tells, then."

John scowled. "This isn't funny, Sherlock. You can't - won't - go back to drugs again. I won't let you."

"But I'm bored!"  
"Then let's travel!" John said, slamming his tea down. "It's dangerous, Sherlock, you can't do drugs again! You've been clean for a year now, don't go back to it!" He glanced at his watch. "Okay, don't do anything stupid while I'm away. Mary's getting out of work in ten minutes and we're going out to dinner."

"Boring."

"Shut up, Sherlock. Anyway, I'll see you… Wednesday?" John confirmed.

"Unless there's a pressing case sooner," Sherlock said, not looking up.

"Right. And don't do drugs," John added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Never would I dream of doing that, John," he said, waving his pipette in farewell.

* * *

"I'm sure Sherlock's bored," Mary said to John when the latter had told her that the detective hadn't had a case in a month.

"Yeah, he's going insane. I had to tell him not to go back to the drugs." John shook his head. "Honestly, I think that if I didn't say anything, he might do it. It's lucky he values my opinion doubtless of what he tells everyone."

"We should find him a case," Mary suggested, her eyes lighting up. "Why don't we go travel somewhere? We can go to Edinburgh or another city; there'll be a bunch of cold cases that he can try."

John nodded in agreement. "We'd have to get Lestrade to let the police there know that Sherlock's an amateur detective, or else they won't grant him access to the files."

They paid for their food, standing, when both John and Mary's phones buzzed simultaneously.

"Sherlock," they said together.

 **Come to 221B. There's a case. SH**

John glanced at Mary. "You up to seeing him tonight?" he asked, knowing perfectly well she'd be more than happy to go to the flat. As expected, Mary smiled.

"Let's go help him," she enthused, and they took a cab to Baker Street.

* * *

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson!" Mary called warmly as they climbed the stairs to the flat. John walked in to find Sherlock at the counter, in the same place with the pipette.

"So you got a case?" John prompted when Sherlock didn't look up or acknowledge them.

"Yes. Solved it," Sherlock said.

Mary frowned. "You solved it already? Didn't wait for us?"

"What? No, I needed your opinions on this," Sherlock said, lifting his hand for them to see.

"What the - Sherlock, what did you do?" John cried out.

Sherlock's hand was peeled away at the top, bleeding heavily. Dark red blood stained his entire hand and it had no bandage on it whatsoever, but instead was dripping onto the floor, apparently.

"Well, a client came," Sherlock said, allowing John to examine his hand. "She had witnessed a rather strange occurrence involving a murderous dog. The dog had evidently been trained to kill, and it had slaughtered her daughter. Naturally I was interested, and when I went to see the whereabouts of the dog, it attacked me in the process. Oh, and it hadn't been trained to kill," he added at the end. "It had rabies. Obviously."

John ran upstairs to get his med kit, which he kept in his old room just in case events like this happened.

"The dog bit you," Mary said, concerned, "and it had rabies. You've got to go get a vaccination."

"I'm aware."  
"You could get a dangerous infection," Mary continued.

"I was under the impression that's what rabies entails."

John came back with a roll of bandages and antibiotic ointment. He led Sherlock over to the sink, holding a towel under his hand to not get any blood on it.

"I can do it, John," Sherlock snapped.

"It's fine, I can do it," John said, gently taking Sherlock's hand to examine the mangled skin. The detective yanked his hand away.

"What are you doing? I don't want to be _nurtured_ ," Sherlock spat, wrenching the bandages out of John's hands. John stepped back, his hands in the air.

"Alright, calm down."  
"I am calm," Sherlock responded, unrolling the bandages and beginning to wrap it around his hand.

"I don't understand," John said, attempting to keep the anger out of his voice. "You called us over here for a case - a case you already solved, mind you - and you won't let us help you with your dog bite that potentially has rabies."

"That sounds about right," Sherlock said, wincing as he pulled the bandage tighter.

John glanced at Sherlock's hand. "You're doing it wrong," he said blatantly. Sherlock paused.

"Oh? How so?"

John shrugged. "You don't need help or friends, genius. I'm sure you can figure it out by yourself."

"Alright," Mary cut in. "Sherlock, stop playing the sociopath act - we all saw you charging into the bonfire for John."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but Mary wasn't finished. "And John, just help him, alright? He may not be a complete sociopath but he nearly is, right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked slightly mollified at this.  
John exhaled. "Fine. Sherlock, you forgot the ointment."

Sherlock peered down at his hand.

"Oops," he said, unraveling his bandages and squirting some on. "I suppose I've got to go to the hospital tomorrow for a vaccination?"

"Yes. Do you want me to take you?" John offered.

Sherlock began to say "No, why would-" when a stern glance from Mary made him freeze. He backpedaled. "I appreciate your offer, John… because it's really very kind of you… but I can manage, thank you."

Mary nodded encouragingly. "Honestly," she said, shaking her head, "how many arguments did you two get into before I came along? It must have been a nightmare."

Sherlock and John exchanged a look, smiling. Once again, John felt a surge of happiness at having his best friend back, and not dead.

 **Ugh I really hate my conclusions. Oh well! Anyway, thanks again to Nevaeh!  
I was previously thinking I had too many near death fics and now I feel like I have too many light-hearted ones? So I guess I'll write neither light-hearted nor near-death next chapter and do a depressing one! Hooray!  
Thanks so much for reading, and I'd be so grateful for any reviews / favourites / follows!**


	36. Reichenbach - John

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to a Guest review for this prompt!**

 **To everyone who has sent me prompts for chapters, I'm working as quickly as I can to get them out :) I promise I'll be writing every suggestion sent in to me!**

 **Also, the recap at the beginning was thanks to the direct script translation from Ariana DeVere, so thank you to her!**

* * *

"This phone call - it's… my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

John could feel his heartbeat in his chest. Sherlock wasn't about to jump off the roof - because he was Sherlock Holmes. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn't.

"Leave a note… when?" he asked, trembling, dreading the answer.

"Goodbye, John," was the last of the baritone voice John heard. Sherlock tossed his phone aside, his Belstaff whipping in the wind.

"No - Sherlock!" John yelled.

The figure on the roof open his arms wide, and stepped off the side of the building. "Sher…" John began, transfixed in horror and anguish. Every heartbeat was echoing in his temples as he moved forward.

Sherlock's body plummeted through the air and landed with a crack on the pavement.

" _You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."_

There was a ringing in his ears. He had to get to Sherlock. Sherlock.

" _I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."_

A cyclist crashed into him, and he collapsed onto the pavement. He had to get up, get to Sherlock. There was a crowd forming, a throng of people blocking his view of his friend. His friend.

" _Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."_

Sherlock. He was on the pavement. Blood on the pavement. Matted hair. Crumpled, unmoving.

" _John? John! You are amazing, you are fantastic!"_

The crowd was in his way.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through, let me come through, please," he could hear himself saying, his voice choked, cracked. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend, please!"

" _Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

There must be a pulse. There had to be. John's fingers scrabbled against Sherlock's hand - his friend was still warm, he must be alive - he was feeling, feeling for the pulse, the beat, the sign that meant he was alive, but he was being jostled away from Sherlock.

"Please, let me just…" he begged weakly, the scene before him flickering and ringing still.

" _Goodbye, John."_

Sherlock's body was flipped over. Pale, bloody face. Sea green eyes saw but didn't observe.

"Oh, Jesus, no. God, no."

Sherlock's body was carried away.

* * *

There was a blanket around John. He was back at Baker Street. It was freezing in the flat. He was aware that Mrs. Hudson was moving around near him, lighting a fire in the cold, empty fireplace.

His cheeks felt dry. He hadn't cried, the tears wouldn't come. Instead, he sat, unmoving, the image of Sherlock's eyes burned into his skull. Seeing and not observing. It was the cruelest image to remember his friend by, but he couldn't find any other memory at the moment.

"John? Tea?" Mrs. Hudson offered a cup to John. Her face was puffy, red, and wet. John hardly noticed.

"He's dead," he could hear himself saying finally. "He's dead and he's not coming back."

He picked up the cup of tea and found that his hand was trembling. It hadn't trembled like that since when he'd gotten back from Afghanistan, before he'd met Sherlock. It had gone away that first night, along with his psychosomatic limp.

Now, the tremor was back.

Tea crashed over him as the shattering of the cup rang through the flat. The tea was excruciatingly hot, but John welcomed the pain. Anything to distract him from Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, the best friend he ever had.

The violin sat near him. It was probably still in tune without much dust on it, because less than twelve hours ago, Sherlock had been sitting in that armchair across from him, playing. Not anymore. The violin wouldn't be played again.

This reminded John of the scarf and coat. Where had Lestrade taken the evidence? He had no idea, but just like the violin, the coat and scarf wouldn't be used again.

He needed his phone, he needed to see a video of Sherlock, desperate to hear and to see him, alive. He pulled himself up from his chair to retrieve his phone, and was surprised to find that he nearly collapsed to the floor as his leg cried out in pain.

It hadn't hurt like that since the last time his hand had trembled.

He limped over and grabbed his phone off of the counter. The last time he had held this, he was talking to Sherlock on the other line. Sherlock never called him. He preferred to text. But he had called him, for "his note".

He found himself opening his phone and going to his videos. His hand was shaking badly and he barely managed to click on a random video.

" _We've just solved a case!" came John's cheerful voice through the video. The camera twisted to show Sherlock, who looked gleeful one moment until he realized John was filming him._

" _John, put your phone away!"_

" _Why? It's funny to see how excited you get by solving a murder."  
_ " _Why on earth would that be funny?!" was Sherlock's reply._

" _I don't know! Just humor me!"_

 _There was movement as Sherlock made his way into the frame. "Hello, viewer. It's discouraging to hear that you're wasting your time watching this stupid video! And John, if it's you watching this - and I'm fairly sure that it is - then how about you and I play a game of Cluedo?"_

 _John's voice in the background immediately countered that idea._

John slammed his phone off and threw it across the room. That hadn't been a good idea to watch the video, and now a hot tear came down over his cheek. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried. He was a soldier. He wasn't weak.

He would do anything to play another game of Cluedo with Sherlock. He would do anything. Anything.

 **Okay, so that was probably the most depressing chapter I've ever written. Getting hurt emotionally is harder and more fun (depressing) to write. Poor John.**

 **Thanks again to the guest that suggested I write an angsty post Reichenbach of John. Also, I would be so appreciative of any reviews that have prompts for an injury or something similar! Thanks!**


	37. Insomnia - John

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to Starcross123 for this prompt!**

 **Also, I've got a long list of prompts from people waiting to be written (I'm still accepting suggestions though:)! ), so please forgive me if I haven't gotten to yours yet, and I'm so sorry to those of you who have been waiting for a while now.**

 **Other note: I'll be starting school again on Tuesday, so my updates unfortunately won't be as frequent as I'd like, but I'll try my hardest to get one out at least every three to four days!**

 **This will be a sort of short and light-hearted one because my next couple are going to be longer. Brace yourselves, folks.**

* * *

It was nearing eleven at night when Sherlock solved his first case since he'd returned from the dead. Well, not from the dead, apparently - rather, from his travels around the world to defeat Moriarty's network. John still felt strange every time that he even glanced at his friend; after all, he'd spent two years thinking he was dead. Yet here he was, solving cases just as he always had.

He picked up his phone as Sherlock was trying to hail a cab and phoned Mary.

"Hey," she said when he answered. "Did you two solve the case?"

"Well, Sherlock did," John said, smiling slightly at being able to say his friend's name without feeling slightly dead inside. "We're finishing up now. Sherlock's trying to hail a cab, then I'll head back home once we've stopped at Baker Street. I'll probably be back a quarter to midnight."

"Oh, don't worry, John. Stay at Baker Street tonight. Don't bother driving that extra way this late, it doesn't matter," Mary offered.

"Are you sure?" John asked, slightly abashed; the past two nights he'd stayed at Baker Street in his old room because he and Sherlock had been out late on the case.

"Yes. Remember, he needs you too, John. I think he's forgotten what it's like to have a friend around the past couple of years."

"Okay. Well, I'll see you tomorrow at work," John said.

"Right. Love you," Mary said, a smile on her lips audible even through the telephone.

John hung up. "Sherlock, do you mind if I spend the night at Baker Street again?" he asked as they climbed into the cab. Somehow, he felt it was compulsory to ask because it was technically Sherlock's flat now since they didn't share anymore.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "You're always welcome, John," he said. John was just thinking about how nice that was of him to say that when Sherlock added, "But don't talk much tonight. I need time in my Mind Palace and your voice is rather irritating."

Oh, well. At least he was back. John kept reminding himself that every time Sherlock made an embarrassing deduction on him or completely missed a social cue.

They got back to Baker Street twenty minutes later. John was absolutely knackered, and so he headed straight for bed, and was glad to see Sherlock was too - typically the detective didn't get enough sleep.

Which, speaking of, John hadn't gotten much sleep either lately. Sherlock had returned two weeks ago, and now for two weeks he hadn't slept more than four hours in one night. He hadn't told anyone, of course. He assured himself that this was the emotional, temporary side effect of Sherlock returning. He couldn't bring himself to sleep for an extended duration, because he was afraid he'd wake up and Sherlock would be dead again - what if his return was all a dream?

Some nights he didn't sleep at all. John would lay awake in bed, unable to, because the nightmares were worse than not sleeping.

John was positive that Sherlock hadn't missed the fact that he had acute insomnia - that man didn't miss anything - but it hadn't been mentioned.

* * *

The next week was similar to the one before. Sherlock and John were finishing up with a client in Baker Street, and it was nearing two in the afternoon.

"John, put that deduction down. It'll look good in your blog," Sherlock said blatantly.

John gave a start. "Sorry, I…hadn't been listening."

In truth, it wasn't that he hadn't been listening, it was that he couldn't listen. The past week he'd had a cumulative total of twenty hours of sleep. That was it. The room felt cold and dizzying, and while one half of him wanted to sleep badly, the other half refused to - what if there was the small chance this was a dream, and he'd wake up with Sherlock still dead?

"That was a fairly good one, too," Sherlock said mildly. "That's alright. I'm sure I'll make another within the next ten minutes."

Their client left thirty minutes later. Sherlock resumed his position in the kitchen with his microscope, and John sat down to read.

However, it didn't take much time for him to realise reading wasn't going to work. Everytime he read a sentence, he had to reread it, because he hadn't processed what it said; that is, if he had managed to even read in the first place without his eyelids sliding down and the words dancing across the page.

Sherlock's voice jumped him from his stupor with the book.

"What was that?" John asked blankly, blinking rapidly to force himself to focus and listen.

"I said, are you getting takeaway tonight?"

John had to think the question over several times before gathering an answer. "Er… no. I'm going home. Dinner with Mary."

Sherlock frowned. "Mary's at a conference in Edinburgh."

"Right!" John said automatically, feeling rather stupid. "So I guess we'll be getting takeaway, then. I'll stay the night here, then, if you don't mind."

No answer from Sherlock.

"What do you want?" John asked, heaving himself up from his chair and rubbing the black out of his eyes. His vision finished tunneling and returned as Sherlock said, "Soup. I don't care what kind. Whatever they have."

"Okay," John said, picking up his wallet to go to the sandwich shop, deciding he could get himself a sandwich and Sherlock tomato soup or something of the sort.

* * *

Sherlock barely took note when John returned and put the soup in front of them.

"You're welcome," John said finally when he didn't receive any answer. "How's the case going?"  
"I don't have a case at the moment. We finished one this afternoon," Sherlock said, finally glancing up from his microscope. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I might go to bed early tonight," John said, knowing that it would be another painful night of laying awake, wanting to sleep but being unable to.

Sherlock sighed. "John, I feel obliged to tell you that you're suffering from acute insomnia. It's perfectly clear from the poor memory, lack of-"

"I don't need the deduction," John said sharply, then inhaled. "Sorry, sorry. I mean, yeah, I've had a bit of insomnia, but it's nothing."

"Sleep deprivation can severely affect cognitive functions," Sherlock commented.

"Like you're one to talk," John snorted.

"I never go so far as to let it affect my mental state," Sherlock said indignantly. "Well, unless it's a really important case, then I make an exception. But, John - how long have you gone without a full night of sleep?"

"I haven't slept in two days, and the last time I slept was for three hours," John said, wincing as a headache stabbed at his temples. "I'm fine, though."

"You don't look fine."

"No, really I am. I'll just take some melatonin tonight, or something," John assured him.

Sherlock's eyes lingered on him a moment longer - John could feel his sharp gaze examining him like an x-ray - then he turned back to his microscope.

"Just don't let your lack of sleep impede on any of our cases," he warned.

"No," John promised, slightly pleased at how Sherlock referred to it as both of their cases, even though he scarcely ever solved one before Sherlock. Come to think of it, he didn't think he ever had. Another ten minutes passed in silence.

"Why do you have insomnia?" Sherlock asked abruptly, looking away from his microscope again. "You don't have any medical conditions that I'm aware of. You're not on drugs or some other medicine that would affect your sleeping habits."

John gave his friend a look. "Yeah, it's not exactly a scientific reason."

"It's not?" Sherlock said, looking rather surprised. John had forgotten how naive the detective could be.

"Well, it can be caused by… emotional… reasons as well," John said uneasily. Sherlock's expression changed from disgust at the word "emotional" to confusion to slight fear at having to deal with an emotional situation.

"Oh? And what are those… 'emotional reasons'?" Sherlock said finally.

John let out a short laugh. "Nothing, I'm fine."  
Sherlock suddenly stood, smoothing his suit. "John, I was once told… before I, well, _fell_ … to not just say that I'm fine. Don't just say that you're fine, because… I mean, if it's something emotional…" Sherlock was looking more and more nervous by the second the longer he spent trying to fix John's "emotional reasons."

John looked at Sherlock, surprised. "Who told you that?"

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock said, unabashed.

"Ah. Well, believe me when I tell you that I'm fine." John forced a smile. "Look, my best friend is back from the dead. I've got nothing to be stressed about."

"So you're stressed about me being back?" Sherlock confirmed, looking slightly taken aback. "I'm… sorry for that. If there's anything I can-"  
John interrupted. "No, look Sherlock. It's not that. It's just…" He struggled to find the words for his sociopathic friend to understand. "It's just that I'm… irrationally afraid this is a dream. If I go to sleep, I'll be brought back to the reality, where you're dead."

"Oh," Sherlock said, understanding dawning across his face. "Oh. Well, then. So, you won't let yourself sleep because…"  
"I don't want to wake up to a worse reality," John finished, and was uncomfortably aware of how very irrational he was being. Of course this wasn't a strange dream. Sherlock really was back. He was back, and he wasn't dead.  
"Maybe you should just get to bed early tonight," Sherlock suggested. "Go to bed now, and don't worry about it. I'm back, John, for real. I promise you that I'm not dead."

"I know," John said, laughing nervously. He paused. "Okay, then, I guess I'll go… to bed." He lingered a moment longer before heading upstairs. The sun was still shining, so he pulled his shades down and his curtains.

It was when his head hit his pillow that a sudden melody began to echo beautifully through the flat. Sherlock was playing Bach on the violin; one of John's favourite pieces, too - it was a sonata that the detective had been playing in the weeks leading up to the rooftop… event.

Somehow, miraculously, it worked, and John fell asleep with the smooth sound of the violin playing continuously through the flat.

 **Personally I think that Sherlock believes that actions speak louder than words, so that's how I try to portray him. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and again, any and all reviews are welcomed! Thank you for reading!**


	38. Lobotomy - Sherlock

**Warning: This chapter will be graphic and much less light-hearted that what I usually do. It will reference brain damage as well; if that subject is sensitive for you, you might want to skip to the next chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to the Guest review that left this prompt for me!**

 **This is set post-Reichenbach, and assumes that Moriarty survived the rooftop.**

* * *

"I'm so glad you came, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson crowed as they finished eating. "And of course you, too, John, it's just that I didn't expect Sherlock to be here."

"Neither did I," John said, smiling. "It took a lot of convincing-"

"Not convincing, just explaining the purpose of 'socialising'!" Sherlock interjected.

"But he came round when I told him you'd be upset if he didn't come."

"I wouldn't be that upset," Mrs. Hudson said blatantly, taking another sip of wine. "I'd probably think we'd just dodged a bullet; knowing him, I was slightly afraid he'd arrive here with a human head or something similar."

"Well, I didn't," Sherlock said indifferently.

"Shall we go back to Baker Street for the cake?" John asked, handing the check to the waiter.

"Hmm, you and I can, John," Sherlock said, suddenly distracted by a text on his phone.

"What do you mean?" John asked, looking at Sherlock then Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock looked at John exasperatedly. "John, I thought you were attempting to apply my methods!"

"Well, I am, but not - like - consciously, or anything!" John said defensively.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "You think that you can reach this level of deduction subconsciously? If so, then I hope that you deal with failure well, because that won't work. John, you've got to be constantly observing, and always asking yourself what those observations mean - you can't just expect to _think_ you're going to do better and automatically make a decent deduction."

John threw his hands in the air. "Fine, alright. But what are you saying? I don't even remember why we started talking about this."

"Mrs. Hudson won't be coming back for cake with us, and that's because she's having it with someone else."

Mrs. Hudson looked shocked. "Sherlock Holmes, who have you been talking to?"

"No one, I saw. It's so absurdly obvious! Look at her jewelry! It's new, and when was the last time Mrs. Hudson bought heart-shaped earrings for herself? Oh, and let's not forget the fact that she's wearing her best dress, makeup, and perfume!" Sherlock's voice changed to a high falsetto. "'Oh, Sherlock, you can't tell that she's having cake with someone else because she's dressed nicely! Of course she's dressed nicely, it's her birthday!' Well, have you noticed that she's resisted eating a majority of the meal?"

"Sherlock," John began.

"Mrs. Hudson doesn't care what she eats, she's Mrs. Hudson! Clearly she's planning on eating more after this and she also wants to look good for that person she's meeting! 'Well, maybe she's just not hungry, Sherlock!' Think again! She's received two texts during this entire meal and responded to both, and consider: When was the last time you saw Mrs. Hudson get two texts in the span of an hour, let alone respond to them?"

"Sherlock!" John said again, more urgently.

"The simple and only conclusion is that she's going out with her new boyfriend for cake after this meal, which you should have easily realized, John, if you'd actually tried to apply my methods like you said you would!"

"Sherlock!" John said angrily. The restaurant was silent, listening raptly because Sherlock's voice had gotten incredibly loud by the end of his deduction. "Sherlock. Not okay."

Mrs. Hudson had a hand over her mouth. "You just broadcasted it to the entire restaurant," she said faintly. "And every bit of it was true!"

"Apologise," John said firmly.

"What for? For being vigilant and quite frankly cleverer than you?"

"Sherlock, there's a line, remember? And you've just crossed it by a mile," John said in a low voice.

"I don't see a line."

"It's bloody metaphorical!"

"Funny how you can see a line, considering how incredibly dull you are, yet you cannot see the obvious fact that Mrs. Hudson's meeting her boyfriend after this," Sherlock intoned. "I apologise, Mrs. Hudson. I did not intend to embarrass you."

Mrs. Hudson stood, her face pale. "Thank you boys for coming," she said, managing a smile. "I've got to go. I'm meeting my boyfriend." With that, she hurried out of the restaurant, the tips of her ears red.

"I cannot believe you," John said, standing too. "I _cannot_ believe you."

Sherlock only looked at him with confusion. John couldn't help but feel a pulsing fury at the ignorance the detective could possess.

"You're a freak," John told him.

"I'm not a-"

"Yes, you are. Any other normal person would not do that."

Sherlock continued to look bewildered, and started to answer, but John didn't hear because he was throwing his jacket on to leave.

"John-" he began, but John didn't look back as he took the first cab. Sherlock stared blankly after him.

* * *

The second that John had told the cabbie where to go, a pang of regret stabbed at his chest. He'd called Sherlock a freak. A freak. It was the word he'd always hated Sally Donovan for using, the word that made him pity his friend, the word that encompassed all of Sherlock's unique qualities but gave them an ugly spin.

He considered phoning Sherlock, but remembered that the detective detested phone calls, so instead sent a text to him.

 **Sent 6:58: I'm sorry. I'm heading back to Baker Street, can we talk?**

 **Received 6:59: I'm on my way back now. Can we refrain from a 'talk'?**

 **Sent 7:01: I need to apologise. Not just through text.**

 **Received 7:02: I'd rather that we unanimously considered this a formal apology. I have no desire to have a sentimental conversation.**

 **Sent 7:05: At least let me apologise to you?**

 **Received 7:06: No need. I just got a new case. Will you join?**

 **Sent 7:08: Absolutely.**

* * *

John entered Baker Street, relieved to see that he had gotten there before Sherlock. It was expected, since he left first, but he didn't want to walk in with Sherlock already lounging in his armchair, deep in thought.

It didn't take long to hear Sherlock's quick footsteps on the stairs.

"John!" Sherlock burst out. "A case!"

"I know," John cut in. "But first, I feel really, really bad for calling you a-"  
"Please, John. I don't care. What I do care about is this case! Look!" Sherlock brandished his phone. John read the screen.

 **Received 7:05: Ino. Dqzokj sehh zea ej pdenpu iejqpao eb ukq zkj'p ykia owra dan benop. Ykia wjz lhwu. 32 Xenyd Nkwz. FI**

"That doesn't make any sense," John said finally.

"Yes, it does. I don't think it's meant to be a difficult cryptogram. It's meant to intrigue me. Simple Caesar Cypher, probably. Look, see the two words after 32? Most likely a street name, because why else would there be a number and two words following that are capitalized?" Sherlock said, his tone getting more and more excited. "John, that means that the four letter word at the end is either 'road' or 'lane', if we apply the balance of probability. Now, the first three letter word. There's a period after it, so it's possibly some form of greeting…" He wandered into the kitchen, getting out a notebook and pen and muttering to himself.

"John, could you search the most common two letter words in the English language?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly. John obliged, opening his laptop.

"Let's see… of, it, in, is, be…"

"Probably an 'i', then," Sherlock said. "I'll input the key and see if a sentence comes from it; if not, we'll try something else."

Sure enough, Sherlock was right. He quickly filled in the letters while John watched, and slowly, the message was revealed.

 **Mrs. Hudson will die in thirty minutes if you don't come save her first. Come and play. 32 Birch Road. JM**

"John, let's go," Sherlock said immediately, and he threw his Belstaff and scarf on. They left the flat perhaps quicker than they ever had.

* * *

"This is it," Sherlock said when they stepped out of the cab. 32 Birch Road was an abandoned house, and it looked like a very old, hardly refurbished flat. He approached the door, John noticing how his narrow eyes were taking in every minute detail of the house.

"Remember, John, this is Moriarty," Sherlock said quietly. "Keep your gun at the ready."

John subconsciously ran his hand along his gun, ready to pull it out in an instant.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called out once they were inside the house. His voice echoed eerily. There was no answer.

"John, you go upstairs," Sherlock said. "I'll check down here."

"But you don't have a gun. We shouldn't split," John countered.

"John's right," came a new voice from behind them. John turned just as a sharp pain hit his neck, and from the wince Sherlock made, he'd felt it too. John felt his neck, slightly panicked, to find a small dart. He pulled it out dizzily, looked up and made eye contact with Jim Moriarty, and could feel himself falling as the floor flew upwards and knocked him into unconsciousness.

* * *

He woke up with his wrists and back throbbing. Disoriented, it took him to remember that they had gone to 32 Birch Road to save Mrs. Hudson before Moriarty had shown up.

Sherlock was sitting across from him, looking fully alert. John struggled to focus; whatever the tranquilizer had been, it was strong. His hands were handcuffed behind him, around a metal support pole to the house. It seemed they were in the basement.

"How are you awake already?" John asked, his words jumbling together as though he had marshmallows in his mouth. He shut his eyes, willing the vertigo to go away. He had no inclination to vomit in this soggy basement.

"I have a much higher resistance to drugs, remember?" Sherlock said. "And there's no use trying to escape the handcuffs. They're too strong."

Sudden footsteps came down the stairs. Two pairs. One was wearing shiny, polished black shoes, and the other thick boots.

"Psychology is fascinating," Moriarty's voice warbled as he came into sight with his lackey Moran. "If I'd sent a text simply saying that I'd kidnapped your dear landlady without the cypher, I'm sure you would have asked me for proof that I'd actually taken her."

Sherlock's face had drained of color.

"But once you were distracted by a pretty code, all distrust left you. Interesting. You didn't doubt for one second that I actually kidnapped her."

"So what? Is she safe?" John asked angrily. "Stop playing these games!"  
"Yes, I thought it was clear that was what I was implying. I didn't touch her," Moriarty said, frowning. He turned to Sherlock. "You know, I get that it's fun for you to keep your pet around, but he really is stupid."

"What are you going to do? Torture us?" Sherlock asked, a bored expression on his face, but John knew that he was faking the disinterest; he couldn't show Moriarty fear. At least, that's what John hoped Sherlock was doing.

"No, that's dull. Cliché," Moriarty said, drawing out the word. "You remember I said I'm changeable. Well, I've changed my mind. I'm not going to burn you, Sherlock. I'm going to do something better."

"Let us go?" John interrupted.

"No. I was thinking last night, I wonder how the world would react to a brain dead Sherlock Holmes? I bet it would be rather amusing to see."

"No!" John shouted, all dizziness from the tranquilizer gone.

"John," Sherlock said calmly. "Please be quiet." He shifted his gaze to Moriarty. "So how do you plan on doing that?"

Moriarty turned to Moran. "Show him," he directed. Moran pulled out of his pocket a sharp tool. "Lobotomy, through the top of the head," Moriarty explained. "Don't be scared, Sherlock. I'm sure that John will be there to help you once your brains have been realigned. Who knows, maybe we'll cure your sociopathy? The doctors of the nineteen forties might have been on to something."

For the first time since John had become his flatmate, Sherlock was speechless, and trembling.

"Don't you dare," John said in a low voice. "I swear, if you touch him, I'll rip you apart and stab you so many times that your corpse is unrecognizable. I swear that to you. Do it to me instead. Not him."  
The very idea of Sherlock's brain being damaged by Moriarty was distorting any sane thoughts John was having. He thrashed against the handcuffs to no avail.

"Let's get this done," Moriarty said to Moran. The latter approached Sherlock with the knife.

"Stop it! No, do it to me instead, not him!" John shouted.

"John, while your sentiment to your friend is touching, you're not going to change my mind, not a bit. There's nothing you can do about it," Moriarty said in a high voice.

Sherlock was watching Moran carefully - John could see his eyes darting over everything that he was doing; no doubt he was looking for any sort of leverage against Moran - any deduction - but must have come up with nothing, because he switched to make eye contact with John.

"John, it'll be alright. Don't worry about me," Sherlock said in a level voice. "I suppose I should tell you that you're the bestest friend I've ever had."  
"No - stop it," John said, hardly aware he was shouting. "No, no, this isn't it. Moriarty - don't do this, please, no, don't do this to him - please -" He was begging now.

"There are lots of articles online that tell you how to deal with brain dead loved ones," Moriarty said. "Don't worry, John, I'll make sure he doesn't die. That would ruin the fun!"

John was straining against the handcuffs, and could feel his wrists bleeding heavily from it, but didn't care in the slightest. "Sherlock, I'm sorry I called you a freak tonight!" was all he could think to say as Moran placed the tool against Sherlock's forehead. "I'm so sorry!"  
"I forgive you, John," were Sherlock's last words before the knife was plunged into his head. John could hear a strange mix of ringing and screaming in the room, and suddenly his wrists were free with a loud crack - he had broken through them, somehow, miraculously - and had dive-tackled Moran to the floor, slamming his head against the cement, punching, digging, scratching, biting him. Anything, anything to get him away from Sherlock, and when he felt the surprised larger man go limp, he moved onto Moriarty, who was standing with an expression of amusement, as though this were all a game. He slammed into the consulting criminal and smashed the latter's head against the cement floor. Warm, sticky blood splashed onto his hands, and when Moriarty too was unconscious, but with a strange frozen smile on his face, John turned to Sherlock.

"Are you alright?" he cried out, undoing Sherlock's handcuffs. "You're bleeding!"

"Very astute," Sherlock said, before passing out. There was a huge wound gouged in his head, but from what John could estimate in his stricken state, there was a small chance that it wouldn't be fatal. John ran to Moriarty's slack body, fumbling through his fancy suit for a phone, and found one; with shaking fingers he dialed 999.

"Sherlock, it's alright, an ambulance is coming," he said, cradling his friend's bleeding head. He put pressure on the wound, wrapping Sherlock's scarf around it, and feeling tears free fall from his face. With a shock, he realized that last time he had cried was when he was shot in Afghanistan. "Come on, stay with me Sherlock." He remained that way until the sirens and lights alerted the ambulance's arrival.

* * *

Seventeen hours later, Sherlock was up and talking.

According to the doctors, if the wound had been a centimeter deeper, he would have suffered irreversible brain damage. John could only sit there, trying not to imagine his friend losing his mind palace and everything he had worked so hard for.

"Is… Mrs. Hudson okay?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Yes, she's fine. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Headache."  
"What's your name?"  
"Sherlock Holmes."

"What's my name?"  
"John Watson."

"What's the date?"

"Sometime in 2017. John, you know I don't pay attention to something as trifle as the date. That's a waste of space in my mind palace."

"Okay, you're fine," John said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Sherlock, you almost had permanent brain damage. From a lobotomy. From Moriarty." His words got slightly higher with every sentence.

"How did we escape?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "I am embarrassed to admit that, while my memory is high functioning, I don't remember."

"Well, I attacked Moriarty and Moran, right after he stabbed you to start the lobotomy. Er, it was a bit morbid and violent, when I attacked them. I think they'll be in the hospital for a while."

"How did you get out of your handcuffs?"

"I'm not sure," John said. "My wrists were bleeding, so I suppose I was pulling against them quite hard, and when he drove the knife into your forehead, they just cracked."

Sherlock grinned. "Fascinating. I've never been in the presence of hysterical strength. That's what it's referred to as. Superhuman strength when under duress."

"So you probably don't remember me apologising. About, well, what I said to you tonight."

"You already apologised. Through text, and at Baker Street."  
"I feel horrible about it, Sherlock."

"Don't worry, John. I think saving my life compensates for it," Sherlock said.

"Do you remember what you said right before Moran started the lobotomy?" John asked suddenly.

"No. I hope it wasn't sentimental," Sherlock said, already scowling like he knew the answer.

"You… you said I was the bestest friend you ever had," John said. "I hope you know you're my best friend, too."

Sherlock didn't say anything, but sat there with an uncomfortable expression.

"Sorry, I'm done-"

"No, John, it's fine."

"No, really, I'm done. I just wanted you to know that," John said, and smiled at his best friend.

 **I think that was just about the corniest ending I've ever written. I felt it was necessary, though, because it about killed me to write John calling Sherlock a freak. Ouch.**

 **Thank you so much for reading this and again thank you to the wonderful Guest review for this prompt! Please please drop me a review because I'd be so grateful :)**


	39. Pneumonia - John

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to DisappearingKangaroo for this prompt!**

 **So I've started school again, which is why it took me so long to get this chapter out. I'll still be updating as frequently as I can, though!**

 **This'll be a long one.**

* * *

 **Sunday 9:00 AM**

It was, for the first time in a while, a quiet day at 221B Baker Street. It was snowing heavily outside so that the chatter and traffic of the city was muffled in a cosy silence. It was also a Sunday, and since John didn't have to go into work he was sitting with the newspaper and his cup of tea.

Sherlock Holmes was reading a book on psychology in his armchair, and being surprisingly - and pleasantly - quiet about the lack of cases. He hadn't had one in an entire eight days, and had complained quite loudly at the beginning. John supposed he was going stir crazy and that was why he had hardly spoken for twenty-four hours now. Though he pitied how bored his friend was, it was a nice change to have him reading instead of conducting explosions in the kitchen in the name of a case.

However, John's serene train of thought was broken when Sherlock suddenly leapt upwards with the vigor that could only mean a case.

 _Oh, well. The peace could only last so long._

"Let's go, John! Quadruple homicide! Lestrade needs us! Bring your gun."

John obliged, running up to his room to grab the gun while Sherlock threw his thick coat and scarf on. Well, this was one time that John was glad the detective had the bloody scarf and coat; knowing Sherlock, he probably didn't care about freezing or not in the snow. They hurried out of the flat and hailed a cab to Scotland Yard.

* * *

 **Sunday 11:00**

"We've got, well, a massive problem," Lestrade said. "We know, technically, who the murderer is, because he called the victim's wife."

"What? Why would he do that?" John asked sharply.

"Mistake, we think. It seemed like he wanted to brag about his kill, or something morbid like that, but he hung up as soon as Ms. Ketmont - the victim's wife - picked up the call."

"Did she try calling him back? We can just trace the number," Sherlock said, looking disappointed in the case.

"That's the thing. He realised his mistake and went to the house, smashed Ms. Ketmont's phone into a million pieces, then killed her."

"Are we going to the crime scene?"

"Anderson's already finished there. No evidence at all. Murderer was very careful. Entered through the front door, because it was unlocked, and had gloves and bags or something over his shoes, because there weren't footprints. Ms. Ketmont didn't kill herself, though, because it was a stabbing in the back. It would've been an impossible angle for suicide. Her phone was smashed next to her."

"Then how do you know that the killer phoned her before realising his mistake?"  
"Because Ms. Ketmont phoned us moments before being killed," Lestrade said grimly. "She did give us some information. Apparently, after he hung up on her, she tried calling back but only reached his voicemail. According to her, he stated some sort of nickname which we think is his last name in the voicemail -Tipton. She didn't remember his number while she was on the phone with us, but his recorded message did say something along the lines of, 'If I didn't pick up, I'm either ignoring you or I'm at Hogwarts and I won't call you back for nine months.' I take it he was a bit of an unusual bloke. Look, we don't have any evidence, but you can check out the scene if you want, Sherlock."

"I will. I'm sure Anderson missed everything of significance," Sherlock said.

* * *

 **Sunday 1:00 PM**

To Sherlock's disdain, he barely managed to gather any evidence from Ms. Ketmont's scene; the killer had covered his tracks well. He supposed from the angle and height of the knife that the killer was fairly tall, but that didn't narrow it down very much.

"John, do a quick search of kitchen knives in London," Sherlock said, pouring through Ms. Ketmont's kitchen drawers. "The knife she was killed with doesn't match her own cutlery, so it's the killer's weapon. We can assume that he lives in a particular area based on the location of shop."  
"We can?"  
"Yes. The murders are all in a certain region, and if the kitchen cutlery shop is also in that region, I think it's safe to presume that he lives there. If it matches, we're going to solve this murder the long way but safe way."

"And how is that?" John asked.

"We're going to try the phonebook and call every man under the name Tipton until we find a voicemail that mentions Hogwarts. I assume he won't pick up, considering he's on the run."

* * *

 **Sunday 2:00 PM**

That was how, an hour later, John and Sherlock were back at Baker Street with the phone book, the quiet morning long gone.

"There are 4,631 Tiptons in the book," Sherlock said quickly. "If we assume half are men, there are about 2,315. Between the two of us calling, that's about 1,157 phone calls each. If each call takes approximately a minute total to type the number in, confirm that it isn't our murderer, and cross off the name in the phone book, it'll take us a maximum of nineteen hours."

"Brilliant," John said dryly. "That'll be fun."

"Yes, I think so too," Sherlock said seriously. "Let's start now before another person is killed."

John took his highlighter and typed the first number into his phone. No one picked up, and the voicemail didn't have anything to do with Tipton or Hogwarts. He crossed it off. The next one, a man picked up.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Hi. Do you know the Ketmont family?" John asked.

The voice on the other end was genuinely taken aback; this definitely wasn't their murderer. "I don't believe so. Why?"

"Sorry, I think I've got the wrong number," John said apologetically, and hung up.

Sherlock was much more abrasive; the second someone picked up the phone and clearly wasn't the murderer, he hung up without batting an eye.

"Come on, Sherlock, you've got to be more polite," John protested.

"What for? They don't know who I am and I'll never see them again."

They continued to dial numbers - John was forcibly reminded of the night that they had spent poring over books for what he had called in his blog "The Blind Banker" - continuously. The sky outside, which was already getting dark, became black, and the streetlamps outside flickered wearily for hours. A pink tinge hardly visible in the midnight blue alerted the morning's arrival. More time passed. John wasn't paying much attention. The clock on the wall seemed to be moving at warp speed, and John was taking a shaky sip of coffee when Sherlock shouted, "Got him!"

* * *

 **Monday 11:00 AM**

"You got him?" John said in amazement. "His voicemail?"  
"Yes. I'll forward his number to Lestrade who can track him down," Sherlock said happily.

"What time is it?" John asked, who by this point couldn't care less about the case. "Is it morning?"

"It's nearly midday," Sherlock said dully, shoving the phone book which was full of highlighted names away. "Hmm. That case was a six, at best."

"But it took us twelve - no, fifteen-" John said, finding that it was painful to think.

"Twenty-two hours," Sherlock finished.

"You said it would take nineteen at a maximum!"  
"I miscalculated. As scarcely as I do make a mistake, it does happen," Sherlock said, frowning slightly. "Possibly there was a higher ratio of males to females. Or maybe you moved slower than I projected. Or it could be the intermittent bathroom and tea breaks we made. Or-"

"Yeah, I'm going to bed," John told Sherlock, standing up. Pins and needles ran down his legs; he hadn't moved in hours.

"No, you're not."

"What?! Why?!" John said, edging out of the room before Sherlock could stop him.

"Because I want to go find a new case at Scotland Yard."

"You've got to be kidding me!" John said angrily, laughing in spite of himself. "Well, you can go yourself. I'm going to sleep."

"You slept yesterday!" Sherlock said, and John groaned internally because Sherlock had the expression that he had whenever he delivered a rapid quick monologue.

"Every other human is so weak in the face of exhaustion, but all it takes is a slight bit of brainpower to stay awake! John, you may have a profusion of fallacies including your abominable typing skills and sickening sentiment, but I'd expect you to at least fight a bit more to have more willpower. Your transport is unaccustomed to being in control like mine is, John, and I can teach you how to do that, but you've got to just shove down any feelings that indicate weariness or it'll impede our work!" Sherlock was gripping John's shoulders now. "Come with me, and it'll only be easier to ignore your transport."  
John wrenched him out of Sherlock's iron grip. "I don't want to ignore my bloody transport," he said exasperatedly. "Why do you call it that anyway?"

Sherlock didn't answer but instead stared fiercely at John, his face shining with anticipation.

"I'll come," John grumbled, smiling slightly, and a second later Sherlock was ushering him out the door.

* * *

 **Thursday 6:00 AM**

Sixty-seven hours later, John wasn't smiling.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" he yelled as they stomped up the stairs to Baker Street. "For once in your life, shut up and stop being an ignorant prat!"

"John, your incompetence is extremely irritating, if you could please tone down the stupidity a bit…?" Sherlock asked, taking his violin off of its shelf and beginning to scratch the bow on it aimlessly.

"No! Stop that and listen to me! How am _I_ the one being stupid?" John demanded, suppressing the urge to smash Sherlock's bloody violin. He contented himself by picking up the glass beaker on the wall and throwing it at the wall. The sound of glass shattering surprised him slightly, because he didn't usually get this angry, but red was clouding his vision. "Sherlock, we nearly died. A hostage situation! In a basement! With no food for three days, and we haven't slept one minute since Sunday morning-" He blinked rapidly, feeling like he was about to break down. "You said it would be easy! You said it would be _safe_!"  
"John, you need to be rational. Obviously I didn't intend for us to be kidnapped," Sherlock said calmly, but his face looked pale and a slight manic look was in his eyes. "Go get some sleep, or food, whichever you want first - I wouldn't mind some toast myself - and then we'll feel better."

John inhaled deeply, looking at the broken beaker. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. That was your best beaker," he said, feeling intensely regretful now. "I promise I'll go buy you a new one."

"No, no, it's… fine," Sherlock said, running his hands through his curly hair. "It's… replaceable, I suppose." He rocked forward on his toes, looking wistfully at the shattered glass.

"I'll get tea and toast," John offered. "Do you want jam?"

"No, dry is fine," Sherlock said, still unmoving with his violin hanging at his side limply.

John handed Sherlock a small bit of toast and tea. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I was just on edge, I guess, and you know, I don't usually go seventy-two hours without sleep like you do." He took a deep breath. "You know, I never cry, but I feel close to crying right now, and I hate it."

"Natural human response to deprivation of food and sleep," Sherlock said automatically. They began to eat in silence. Sherlock's face was gaunt in the dim lighting; John supposed he didn't look much better.

"Goodnight," John finally said, and went to bed, his throat feeling cracked and the beginnings of a cold pounding in his chest.

* * *

"I hope you got enough sleep, because we have a crime scene to go to," Sherlock said in his usual cold tone the next morning. He looked at John critically. "Well, I hope that you're not impeded physically from your shoulder because you slept on your left side."

"How'd you know that?" John asked, astonished.

"Think about it," Sherlock said, taking a sip of tea.

"What is it? Is my neck slightly stiff?"

"No," Sherlock said, drawing out the word. "Your hair and wrinkled left side of your face. I wouldn't expect you to notice the facial detail; it's difficult to see."

John sat at the counter. "Do we have to go to a crime scene?" he asked, his voice becoming a croak at the end. He cleared it, and when it didn't smooth out, coughed. Sherlock barely batted an eye.

"No, John, we're going because it hardly matters and is an unnecessary waste of our time," the detective said sarcastically. "Of course we _have_ to go."

John rummaged in the cupboard for a lozenge.

"Did you use the rest of the cough medicine for an experiment?" he asked Sherlock, dreading the answer.

"Yes."

John grimaced and pulled his jacket on to go to the corner shop. It wasn't snowing like it had been on Sunday, but the snowbanks were still tall, and the temperature couldn't have been above negative four. The cold didn't help his throat, and it only stung his throat more; he desperately needed a tissue now too.

By the time he had gotten back from Baker Street, a headache was pounding in his temples.

Well, that was lovely. One of John's least favourite things was getting a cold and being dragged all about London in the winter.

He came back into the flat with his shoulder aching more painfully than usual as he climbed the stairs. To his disdain, Sherlock was ready to leave with his Belstaff and scarf on. He looked impatient.

"It took you long enough, John, what were you doing?!" Sherlock asked, irritated, galloping down the stairs with his gazelle-like legs. John followed suit.

"I was at the corner store, I needed-" he began to say, but Sherlock cut him off.

"The corpse is foaming!" he said excitedly, showing John a picture on his phone. "Let's go!"

John got into the cab reluctantly.

* * *

"You guys look knackered," Lestrade said when they came to the crime scene.

"Hmm. That tends to happen when one's been kidnapped for three days," Sherlock muttered, "and the police don't even notice."

"What?!"

"Oh, nothing. John and I just spent three days awake without food in a basement," Sherlock said brusquely. "Neither you nor Mycroft nor Mrs. Hudson even noticed."

"That's because you're always off doing stuff!" Lestrade said defensively. "Are you alright now?"

"Perfectly healthy," Sherlock intoned, bending near the corpse. "John? What's the cause of death?"

John knelt next to Sherlock. His breaths felt slightly painful, so he tried to breathe easier, but it was difficult because he was sitting next to a dead body.

"Asphyxiation. Strangled a bit, too, by the looks of it," John said, his voice crackling at the end. "Sherlock? What've you got?"

"She's a pedophile, for one. Spends excessive time at a computer. She works at the grocery store," Sherlock said briefly. John coughed, inhaled deeply, and coughed again as a stabbing pain in his chest prohibited a deep breath.

"Are you done hacking up a lung?" Sherlock asked indifferently, then continued his deductions. Lestrade gave John a look of pity for Sherlock's lack of understanding, but didn't say anything.

"Let's take the corpse to Molly. She can do an autopsy," Sherlock said, snapping his magnifying glass closed and shoving it into his coat pocket. John fought back a wave of weariness as they stood; wishing desperately he'd gotten more sleep in the past seventy-two hours.

"You can't," Lestrade was saying.

"Why not?!" Sherlock demanded. "The body is evidence!"

"Yeah, but the morgue is closed."

"So? We break in."

"We're not breaking in, Sherlock. Remember what happened last time?"

John interrupted. "Greg, you broke into the morgue with Sherlock before?"

Lestrade threw his hands in the air defensively. "It was an important case, and Sherlock was being really pushy - I think he was high, actually - and I guess I didn't have the willpower to say 'no', because we'd only just met."

"Sherlock, we can go tomorrow," John prompted, dearly hoping Sherlock would succumb and agree. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.

Fortunately, Sherlock relented.

"Alright, but we're going as early as possible tomorrow morning," he said.

"We'll see," John said, pulling him towards the door. "See you later, Greg."

"Yeah. Uh, sorry that we didn't know you guys were… kidnapped," Lestrade said guiltily. "When do you want to report your attackers? Or are they… disposed of?" he eyed Sherlock warily.

"They're disposed of," Sherlock said, and shut the cab door.

* * *

"I'm bored."

"I figured," John said, his eyes shut. He'd just taken a kip upstairs but couldn't keep his eyes open so resorted to resting in his armchair.

"Want to play Cluedo?"  
"Not at the moment, thanks," John said.

"Can you make lunch?"

"I'm not your parent, Sherlock. Make your own lunch."

"Well, it's twelve-thirteen, and you always make your lunch at twelve-fifteen anyway," Sherlock said.

John opened one eye. "I do?"

"Yes."  
"Hmm. I'm not hungry," John said honestly. He was sweating slightly, and the doctor part of him was saying that this wasn't a common cold, but he was ignoring it because he didn't have any inclination to be sick. He suspected he had a fever, but he was ignoring that as well.

He fell back asleep later that afternoon and didn't get up from his armchair again. Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

* * *

John was jolted awake the next morning by a violent cough. He was disoriented at first before remembering he'd fallen asleep in his armchair. Some fluid came up with his cough; it was chunky green-yellow mucus.

Well, that was disgusting.

It took him a minute to realise how cold he was. Hands shaking slightly from chills, he reached for the blanket on the back of his armchair to put around himself when Sherlock came strolling out into the living room with a dressy button-up suit and slacks on. Only Sherlock Holmes would be wearing a suit at six in the morning, John thought with slight amusement.

He was immediately done being amused when Sherlock demanded he get up and accompany him to St. Bart's to examine the corpse.

One half of him wanted nothing more than to keep sleeping and never move from the cosy armchair, but the other half felt slightly remorseful at having spent practically the past twenty hours in the same spot.

"I'm going to stay here," he finally decided. "Sorry. I just want to sleep a bit more."

"What?!" Sherlock said, an indignant look in his eyes. "John, did your pathetic memory already forget what I told you about transport? You've got to fight against exhaustion."

"I'm tired, Sherlock. I'll just stay here."

"No, you're not," Sherlock said, and ripped the blanket off of John. John shivered as the cold morning air was exposed to him again, and goose pimples crept up his arms.

"I said I'm staying here!" John said weakly. "I don't want to go."

Sherlock grabbed John by the arms and yanked him upwards without warning. For such a thin frame, he was strong.

"What're you doing?" John croaked, swaying slightly.

"You're coming," Sherlock said, and strode into the kitchen. He grabbed the glass of water he had been drinking and dumped it on John's armchair.

"Oi! What was that for?"

"For your motivation."

"You're off your rocker."

"No, I'm determined to get you to come with me." Sherlock pushed John forward towards his shoes. "Let's go."

"Let me stay here," John protested futilely, but Sherlock continued to keep a hand firmly on his back until they were in a cab on their way to St. Bart's.

"Hello, Molly. I trust that you received a corpse upon your arrival this morning?" Sherlock asked, pulling his coat off.

"Um, yes. You wanted to do an autopsy-?"

"That'll take too long, actually. Let's just take a look at the body first."

"Hello, John," Molly said to John. "Are you… feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," John assure her, but he could hardly hear his own voice, it was so dry. He leaned against the wall, trying not to fall asleep while standing.

That didn't work so well. A minute later, he had slid to the floor, trying to catch his breath and not fall asleep at the same time. Molly and Sherlock were busy with the body, and he hoped that they wouldn't notice, but-

"John? Are you sure you're okay?" Molly's voice said from above him. John opened his eyes.

"Yeah… I think I have pneumonia," he confessed.

"What?!"  
"Yeah, I kind of figured that out when I woke up this morning."

"Why'd you come?! Do you want me to go get a cab so you can head home…?"  
"That'd be great," John said, struggling to his feet. "I can do it, though."

Sherlock was watching with an expression of confusion and disdain mingled together.  
"What's happening? Why are you on the floor, John?" he inquired, holding a baggie of the dead woman's saliva.

"I told you I was tired! Sherlock, you dragged me out of my armchair! Literally! I told you that I was sick!"

"No, you said you were tired. You never said you were sick," Sherlock argued.

Molly cut in. "Sherlock, you're, well, the most observant person that I know - that is, when you're consciously observing. But, you lack a bit of - I mean, well, you're just not great at… picking, um, picking up anything that you're, er, not… looking for, I suppose," Molly said, blushing deeply and hardly audible over her stumbling words and voice that grew softer with each word.

"Oh," Sherlock said, slightly taken aback. "Well, John, you can go back to Baker Street. I'll be there around lunchtime."

"Right," John said gratefully, exiting the room.

"John!" Sherlock called right before he left. John paused, hand on the doorknob. "I'm sorry I dragged you out here, and didn't make the necessary deduction. I'll be more… aware of it in the future. I should have realised your poor immune system would have fallen prey to bacteria after the sleepless nights and kidnapping-"  
Molly cleared her throat.

Sherlock stopped. "Yes. Well, I'm sorry, John."

"It's fine," John managed, before smiling, coughing again, and exiting to find a cab.

 **So I liked this prompt a lot (thank you, DisappearingKangaroo!) but I don't think I wrote this one very well. Oh, well - it feels too unorganised or something. I'll try to do a more structure one next chapter.**

 **Hope you liked it anyway! I'd be so so grateful for any reviews! Thank you for reading :)**


	40. Choking - Sherlock

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to paula a rushing for this prompt!**

 **By the way, I have still been trying to write with British spellings / words / phrases (I'm American) so please let me know if I've been making any mistakes! Thank you so much!**

 **I am so sorry that I've been so delayed everyone! I promise I haven't abandoned anyone's suggestions or this story itself; I've just been bombarded with homework so it's difficult to find time to write.**

* * *

In all of the blogs that John wrote, there were few that Sherlock wasn't happy about him documenting. Usually it was because he hadn't solved it; however, their most recent case was too amusing (for John) to not publish. That was how "The Cashew" was uploaded to his blog on a Saturday afternoon and received thousands of views within hours, much to Sherlock's disdain. It had all started twenty-four hours earlier on Friday afternoon.

* * *

"Run me through your deduction again," John said as they rode in a cab back to Baker Street.

"Why? I just explained them; quite thoroughly, in fact."

"Yes, and I didn't understand any bit of it."

Sherlock obliged with a cocky expression. "The murderer is planning on killing his girlfriend based on his recent internet searches and texts."

John frowned. "That's all?"

"Yes."  
"Why did it sound so confusing the first time?"

"I prefer to use jargon that will enhance my descriptions; clearly, your vocabulary is too limited for the detailed explanation," Sherlock said plainly.

"You're off your rocker," John said, shaking his head. "Right, so tonight we pose as two normal people-"

"Dull, mindless people," Sherlock interjected.

"No, normal people - and we're going to figure out how the man plans on murdering his girlfriend before he does?"

"Yes. The girlfriend doesn't know he wants to kill her, of course. She assumes he's cheating on her. They'll be at the club tonight."

"Okay. What time will we go there?"

"I don't know. What time do _normal_ people go out for a drink?" Sherlock asked, hiking the collar of his coat up as they stepped out of the stuffy cab.

"Well, when I go to the pub with Stamford around nine sometimes. We could probably get there around eight just in case the girlfriend and her boyfriend get there early. What're their names again?"  
"Kimberly and Brad," Sherlock said tonelessly, wrenching 221B's door open and flopping onto the couch. Dust flew upward and fluttered in the air. He glanced at John.

"I need your help."

John halted to a stop in the kitchen. "What?" he said, so surprised that he held his breath.

"I said, I need your help."

"Why?" John asked, taken aback. "I mean, you've needed my help before, but I don't think you've ever asked for it."

"Yes. I did just now. Do stop gaping and listen."

"Right. Sorry," John said. "What is it?"  
Sherlock pulled off his Belstaff, hanging it on a hook. "I need you to help me look _normal_."

* * *

"Okay. So," John said, slightly nervously for fear of making any sort of mistake. They were standing in Sherlock's bedroom in front of his closet. "We've got to look normal - well, I already look ordinary, so _you've_ got to look normal - so that we can infiltrate the club and determine how Brad will murder Kimberly before he does." He paused. "How come we don't just send Lestrade in to arrest Brad straight away?"  
"Then it would be dull, John! Boring! Unnecessary!" Sherlock said earnestly. "The game would be _over_. But we're not going to _blend_ well unless you help, and we need to blend. What do I do?"

John studied Sherlock. "No coat or scarf," he said after a moment.

"I supposed as much," Sherlock said, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

John dug into Sherlock's closet. "You've got to have one pair of jeans in here," he muttered.

" _Jeans?_ "

"Yes. Most people wear them. It's normal." John surveyed Sherlock's clothing that was strewn about the closet. "I mean, I'd offer a pair of mine, but it'd be way too short."

"No, I've… got… a pair. I had to use it for a case once," Sherlock said, his nose wrinkled.

"Brilliant!" John said, spotting the said pair shoved in the darkest corner. "These'll do."

"Fine," Sherlock said, snatching them out of John's hands. "I assume this shirt is _normal_?"

"No, not for a club. And stop saying the word 'normal' like it's a swear."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the last part.

"Because no one wears a bloody button-down and suit jacket out for a drink!" John said, exasperated. "Honestly, how can you be the most intelligent person I know but not know that? Wear a simple tee shirt. Just a neutral colored one will do."

Sherlock examined the tee shirt John had handed him from his closet as though he had never seen it before. "I'm beginning to doubt your supposed expertise. You are, after all, the person who wears the strangest jumpers."

John was about to retort an answer before looking up and seeing that Sherlock's expression wasn't smug in the least bit. Of course - the detective was oblivious to the insult he'd just delivered.

"Look, just try that on, and comb or gel your hair, or something," John said.

"You can leave now," Sherlock said, grasping his bedroom door.

"Thank you," John reminded him.

"Yes. Thank you," Sherlock repeated, closing himself in.

* * *

Five minutes later, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom looking quite unhappy. John had to repress a snort of laughter at the genius standing awkwardly in jeans and a tee shirt.

"It's not amusing, John!" Sherlock said, looking scandalized. "Are you even aware that my exterior is a source of my confidence, and this case is stealing that from me?"  
"Oh, come on, you can't let your appearance dictate you that much!" John told him, hiding his smile.

"You're one to talk, considering your girlfriend broke up with you last night," Sherlock said smoothly. "No, I didn't hear it from anyone, I noticed it. You've been periodically leaving in the evenings lately and returning with a perfumed scent; that one is obvious, you're seeing someone. I am not completely sure why you haven't told me, so I suspect it's a less intelligent individual that you know I'd ridicule you for dating."

"Stop deducing, it's annoying!" John said, irritated.

"Now, I knew she broke up with you due to the fact that you've been wearing cologne yourself for the past few weeks but didn't bother to today. Why not? It must have been compulsory before, because there was someone you wanted to impress, but now you're not even wearing it when we're going out tonight because you're sad over your break up."  
"Were you sniffing me or something?!"  
"Furthermore, if you'd broken up with her, you'd probably be wearing your cologne and bothering to wear your nicest jumper tonight because you'd have moved on. You haven't yet, and that's why you're not even trying to make a good impression on anyone. Conclusion: you were dating a less than average girl that broke up with you yesterday."

John sighed. "Alright, we get it. You're a barmy genius and you don't like having to act ordinary tonight. Now cool it, alright?"

Sherlock composed himself. "Yes." He checked his watch. "We have to leave in ten minutes. Let's go."

"Why are we leaving now if we have to leave in ten minutes?"

"Because I enjoy being prepared, unlike the rest of the simpletons of the world," Sherlock said, and led the way out of the flat.

* * *

"We're going to find Brad and Kimberly and determine how he'll be killing her - that way, in the future we know his modus operandi."

"His M.O.?"

"Exactly. Act natural, and be friendly to them." Sherlock discreetly pointed to the bar as they walked inside. "That's them, sitting over there. We'll text Lestrade once we know exactly Brad's plan." As soon as he was finished talking, he slipped into character.

His posture was much less presumptuous, his walk leisurely, and hands swinging comfortable at his side. John couldn't help but admire the charisma Sherlock could have when he was trying.

"I'll have a martini, please," John said to the bartender, who nodded, then looked to Sherlock. The detective opened his mouth, the word _water_ forming in his mouth when John interrupted. "My friend will have a martini, too."

Sherlock stiffened when the bartender left. "I don't drink, John. It slows the cognitive processes and muddles judgment," he said in a low voice.

"You're normal tonight. Remember?"

Sherlock didn't look convinced.

"Look, mate, I know this is a case, but we never have a bit of fun," John protested. "Just one drink?"

"One," he said firmly, "to stay in character." He glanced over at Brad and Kimberly. "Let's go meet them," he said, and sidled over to the couple. John followed hesitantly, his hand holding his phone in his pocket."

It must have been unfortunate luck of Sherlock's, or a rather amusing coincidence for John, but at that moment about ten members of Scotland Yard came through the door, amongst them Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and Dimmock.

Sherlock saw them immediately and froze where he was, next to the couple.

"Let's go say hi," John prompted.

"I know that," Sherlock snapped. "Don't tell them about the case at all, or else Lestrade will interfere. Above all else I don't want _Anderson_ involved in this, either."  
"So you're not going to explain to them why you'll be socialising with that couple right that, nor why you're dressed in jeans and a tee?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't have time to answer, because they had reached Scotland Yard, on the other side of the pub away from Brad and Kimberly.

"Hey, John. And Sherlock - what… er, nice to see you here," Lestrade said, looking disconcerted. "Never thought I'd see the day when Sherlock Holmes goes to a pub for a drink."

John could feel the detective tense beside him, but because Sherlock seemed to be bent on Lestrade not knowing about the case, returned with, "Lestrade, you know perfectly well that I permit myself fun on some occasions."

"Do you?" Donovan asked. "Such as…?"

"Noticing straight away that you've lost your romantic feelings for Anderson. It's obvious from the way you've crossed your legs and arms, and are turned away from him. Interesting, because Anderson doesn't seem to have realised."

Anderson drew back slightly. "What?!" he said, turning to look at Donovan.

"Sherlock's joking, it's not a real deduction, I can tell," Lestrade cut in. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John took over before he could.

"Just solve a case or something, Greg?" he asked Lestrade.

"Yeah. Wasn't too difficult, because I do solve cases on my own sometimes," Lestrade said rather proudly. "We don't always enlist Sherlock; we're fine by ourselves sometimes."

"I should hope so, Lestrade. That would be a bit of an alarming circumstance if Scotland Yard couldn't solve any cases without the help of an amateur," Sherlock said snidely.

"You know what's alarming? Freak wearing jeans and a shirt," Donovan noted. "Where's your suit and coat?"

Sherlock's facade staggered for a slight moment. "The laundry," he said after a moment. There was a beat.

"Alright, we're going to head back over there," John said, and turned with Sherlock, dearly hoping that Lestrade and the others weren't paying too much attention, and they returned to the case.

"Hey," Sherlock said, now making contact with Brad and Kimberly. "Do I know you…? Hang on, we went to uni together!"

It was incredible how Sherlock switched back to the persona with such ease without batting an eye.

"We did?" Brad asked, looking slightly confused. A moment later, his expression cleared. "Yeah, I remember you! But I'm so sorry - I can't quite remember your name - sorry-"

"No worries," said Sherlock lightly. "Sherlock. Brad, right?"

"Yep," Brad said, looking pleased.

A band had arrived to play loud music, and there was a loud ring through the air as the guitarist tested his electric guitar. Sherlock took the opportunity to say in John's ear, "We didn't know each other. Inevitable human psychology has convinced him that he knew me."

"And who are you?" Sherlock asked to Kimberly, smiling easily.

"Kimberly," Brad's girlfriend said.

"A pleasure to meet you," Sherlock said, shaking her hand warmly.

It was then that John could see Lestrade making his way over.

"So, Sherlock… what made you want to come out? I mean, no offence, but I never would have expected to see you here," Lestrade asked.

"Hey, Graham!" Sherlock said, slapping an arm around a very confused Lestrade. "Brad, John, this is an old friend of mine, Graham. He works at Scotland Yard."

Lestrade didn't seem to be catching on. "Well, I forgot to tell you, Sherlock, once you're done… whatever experiment on socialisation you're doing tonight, I found a file of cold cases that you'd be interested in." He brandished a thick manila file.

John gave Lestrade a meaningful look. "Why would he be interested in those?"  
Sherlock laughed loudly. "Graham, give those to John. He's the smart one. Do you really think I could solve cases?" He snorted as though even the fantasy of it was absurd.

Lestrade blinked in realisation that Sherlock was trying to maintain a role. He nodded. "Yeah, I just thought you might want to try it for once," he said, giving the file to John.

"I could try a couple of those as well," Brad offered. "I work at the butcher shop - in the freezing section - and it's pretty slow there, so I often try to solve detective-ish mysteries myself. I'm quite good at them."

Sherlock looked like he was having an internal battle of whether to call out Brad's "detective" abilities when his eyes suddenly widened. John had seen that look before. Sherlock had figured out how Brad was going to kill his girlfriend, and based on the context of the conversation, John suddenly had a relatively good idea as well. Brad would stick his girlfriend in the freezer at the butcher shop. Not a very clever murder, because he'd certainly get caught, but easy nonetheless.

"Well, Lestrade, I have some information to tell you," Sherlock said, popping a handful of cashews that was in a bowl on the table into his mouth. "Brad is going to-"  
He stopped quite suddenly, coughing violently.

"Choking on a cashew?" John asked, smiling slightly. His smile faded when Sherlock didn't answer and continued to cough to no avail.

"You alright?" he asked again. "Can you breathe?"

Sherlock coughed again, then looked up slightly wildly, gesturing at his throat. A blue tinge was appearing in his face.

John jumped off of his chair and automatically began the procedure he'd learnt many times throughout medical school; he placed his arms around Sherlock's thin frame, right below his ribs, and began to heave. Sherlock coughed again and a cashew went flying out of his mouth.

Sherlock immediately shoved John out of the way, breathing heavily.

"Are you al-" John began.

"We're leaving," Sherlock interrupted. "Lestrade, arrest this man." He pointed at Brad. "He's going to stick his girlfriend in a freezer tonight." With that, he swept out of the restaurant with John following behind him. The detective's face wasn't blue anymore, but from what John could see, a bit red now, from having not only choked on a cashew and nearly suffocated but done it when he wasn't wearing his usual suit and Belstaff.

 **Well, I guess that was my attempt at writing Sherlock choking and being embarrassed by it.**

 **Also, as I finished this, I realised that I wrote this a bit different than how paula a rushing said for the prompt, so I want to apologise for it not being quite what you suggested. I hope you still enjoyed it, though! :) Thank you so much for reading!**


	41. Kidnapped - Sherlock

**Okay. So I intended to finish this nine days ago, but… school happened. I'm so sorry for the extremely long delay!**

 **Warning: Violence and mild language (I don't usually use language but this chapter just felt like it needed it. It's very mild, though :).**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

 **Thanks to Shattering Colors for this prompt!**

 **Note: In this chapter, the bold words (aside from this author's note) are texts. Italics are thoughts. Underlined words are internet search results. Hopefully it isn't confusing :)**

* * *

"Sherlock!" John bellowed, interrupting the peaceful silence at 221B. "Why is there a baby's hand in the fridge? A severed baby's hand!"

Sherlock didn't move from his position on the couch where he was reading a thick book. John stormed over and ripped the book out of hands.

"Please tell me that you didn't massacre a baby," John said, rubbing his forehead.

Sherlock sat up, looking indignantly at his book. "No, I did not massacre a baby. Really, John, I'm not that stupid; then I'd go to jail and Scotland Yard would crumble without me."

John glared at him.

"And… of course I'd never consider killing an infantile creature," Sherlock added. "Leave the hand in the fridge. It's an experiment."

"May I ask why you need a baby's hand?" John inquired.

"Experiment."

"For…?"

"Science."

John stared at Sherlock for several moments before picking up the book and handing it back to him. "Don't let anyone see the contents of our fridge."

"Obviously. I don't even like you pawing through there, but I suppose it's partially your fridge too."

"Excuse me?! Pawing?" John asked.

"Handling, then. Please go away. I was hoping you'd have gotten exasperated and left by now, but you seem inclined to stay and argue. I'd prefer to read my book. Don't you have a date to get to anyway?"

"How'd you know?" John said, impressed against his will  
"It's all in the pattern of when and how you shaved," Sherlock said, looking extremely bored. "Keep an eye on the baby hand for me. I'm going out."

"Out?"

"Yes, and do stop looking so confused; it's irritating."  
"Okay, Sherlock. You need to stop! No, listen - stop it. You're being rude," John said, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder to stop him from going out of the door. "Apologise."

"What?! Why? I assure you, John, I wasn't attempting to insult you, and if I inadvertently did, I offer my sincerest apologies."

John hesitated. "Alright, then."

"However, I was simply just telling the truth that entire time," Sherlock said, and escaped out the door before John could stop him.

The flat felt much emptier once the detective had left to do whatever it was he planned on doing. John glanced at the clock and opted to go to bed.

* * *

The next morning had the same sort of empty feel to it. John was making tea in the kitchen when he realized it was seven and still Sherlock had not woken up. He peered down the hallway; Sherlock's bedroom door was open. He'd never gotten home last night.

Knowing Sherlock, he'd probably been staked out somewhere to observe the dust from fallen leaves or something equally trivial. But nonetheless, John sent him a text.

 **Sent 7:03 AM: Where are you?**

 **Received 7:05 AM: A better question would be "Who are you?"**

John stared at his screen. Of course, this could be Sherlock in a philosophical mood.

 **Sent 7:08 AM: Okay, then, who are you?**

 **Received 7:10 AM: More officially, Ronald Isaiah Aines, Reverend to Yorkshire.**

 **Sent 7:13 AM: Sherlock, cut the riddles. Where are you?**

John sent the last text with more vigor than the last, concern creeping into him now. Ronald Isaiah Aines. Reverend of Yorkshire. John had never heard of him.

 **Received 7:17 AM: You should know Sherlock doesn't like riddles. You've been his flatmate for quite a while now.**

Unless Sherlock was doing an experiment that John would kill him for later, this wasn't Sherlock. At least, John thought so, because Sherlock wouldn't keep this up for this long - would he? Well, maybe he would.

 **Sent 7:18 AM: Tell me who you are.**

 **Received 7:19 AM: I already told you.**

John looked at the incoming text, dumbfounded.

 _I already told you._

He pulled his laptop off of the table and opened it, typing into the searchbar, "Ronald Isaiah Aines".

Did you mean: Ronald Isaiah _Gaines?_

John tried again, this time typing "Reverend of Yorkshire".

There was no Ronald Isaiah Gaines.

 **Sent 7:26 AM: Where the hell is Sherlock?**

John threw his phone back on the couch, pacing the living room. He reread the texts.

 _I already told you._

He was tempted to phone Mycroft, who would certainly have any record of a Ronald Isaiah Aines, but wasn't that desperate yet.

Besides, someone probably stole Sherlock's phone and was having a grand time pretending to be someone else. Surely the detective was fine.

Then why couldn't John shake the nagging feeling? He opened up his phone and reread the texts, then called Sherlock's number. No one picked up.

 _More officially, Ronald Isaiah Aines, Reverend to Yorkshire._ Something about this sounded strange. John read it again and said it out loud.

"More officially, Ronald Isaiah Aines, Reverend to Yorkshire."

 _What would Sherlock do in this situation?_ was John's only solution to what seemed either a harmless joke he was overreacting over, or something much sinister.

What _would_ Sherlock do? John tried to imagine the genius, looking at the text, trying to determine who it was. Well, he'd first do an extensive check on Ronald Isaiah Aines and reverends of Yorkshire… then he might try to trace where the text was sent, somehow… maybe he'd analyse the text to see if there was a hidden code…

 _Hidden code._

"More officially, Ronald Isaiah Aines, Reverend to Yorkshire."

 _Anagram? Maybe._

 _Acronym?_

 _More Officially, Ronald Isaiah Aines, Reverend To Yorkshire._

 _M ore O fficially, R onald I saiah A ines, R everen orkshire._

 _M - O - R - I - A - R - T - Y._

 _Moriarty._

John grabbed his phone, fumbling, and typed out another message.

 **Sent 7:43 AM: I know who you are.**

 **Received 7:45 AM: Prove it.**

 **Sent 7:47 AM: You strapped a bomb to me by a pool.**

John's phone rang with an incoming call loudly, making him jump.

"Where's Sherlock?" he demanded into the phone.

"Calm down, John," was the bored, Irish accent that came through the telephone. "I thought you'd never figure that out. It was beginning to get boring."

"Stop the bloody games. Where's Sherlock?"

"Slow down there, Speedy Gonzales," Moriarty said in his infuriatingly playful tone. "I've given you 'who' - me. Now, you need to solve 'where' before I tell you anything else. Get a pen and paper."

"I'm not playing your game-"

"It's not negotiable. It's been awhile since we've done hide and seek. What memories we've had, John! The bomb. The fall. Eurus. You thought I was dead for the longest time! It's time to play again. Now, do you have the pen and paper?"  
"Yes," John said through gritted teeth.

"Write down exactly what I say. You may not enlist anyone's help, and I promise you that I will know if you do. You know, this reminds me of when you had to repeat exactly what I said through the microphone in your ear," Moriarty added thoughtfully at the end.

"Alright, shut up. What's the riddle?" John asked, the pen shaking slightly in his left hand, which was tremoring.

"I am the center of a poem," Moriarty said, slow enough for John to hear. "I am Sherlock's end. I start accuracy. I am the first to begin vivisection. I start but do not finish the end. I am inside of the moon."

John copied down the words furiously. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

John scanned the words. "Is this supposed to keep me busy for twenty-four hours or something? Because it's obvious that this is another word game. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Oh, I know you're not. That's why I expect you to solve it within fifteen minutes," Moriarty responded lightly. "I'll send some - what did Eurus Holmes call it? - emotional context, or whatever it is. Cheers, John."

The line went dead. Fifteen seconds later, another text came through.

 **Received 8:00 AM:** **Attached image**

The image was of Sherlock. Bruised. Bloody. Unconscious.

John bent over the riddle that Moriarty had given him and set to work.

His watch ticked away the seconds like a bomb.

The center of a poem.

 _Oh. 'O'. 'E'. Which one?  
_ Sherlock's end.

 _Burning? Death?_

I start accuracy.

 _If this is a word game, it's got to be 'a'._

I am the first to begin vivisection. John searched on his phone who was first to perform vivisection.

The ancient Greeks were the first to perform experiments on animals. Aristotle and Erasistratus were among those.

John tried the history of the word vivisection.

'Vivisection' was coined by activists protesting experiments on animals during the 1800s.

 _Neither of those seem right. But it's a word game, so it must be the letter 'v'._

I start but do not finish the end.

' _E'? 'En'?_

John slammed his pencil down in frustration and glanced at his watch. Nine minutes had passed. He glared at the last line, "I am inside of the moon." It seemed rather silly that he wasn't sure, but he literally had no clue, so searched the internet again for what the moon was made of.

 _Rock. Obviously! I'm so stupid! Inside of the moon - 'oo'?_

He strung together what he had: "A v en oo".

Moriarty had said it would be the location, so John was quite sure that this was the second part of a street address.

The center of a poem.

 _Since it's not specifying 'o' or 'e', it's got to be 'oe', just like 'oo' was inside of the moon._

I am Sherlock's end.

 _I am Sherlock's end. Fire? I am Sherlock's end. I am Sherlock's end. I am the end of Sherlock. This is a word game, John, think. Not fire, not death. K!_

He wrote it in.

 _O En oo. Oak Avenue._

 _There's an empty warehouse on Oak Avenue._

John grabbed his gun and ran out of the flat.

* * *

It wasn't, surprising, difficult to find Sherlock. He was on the floor, just as in the picture. John got into the warehouse easily - the windows didn't have much trouble shattering - and ran to Sherlock's side, dismissing the fact that any of Moriarty's snipers could easily put a bullet through his head.

"Sherlock!" John cried out, being careful not to shift his friend in case of a spinal injury. "Sherlock, mate, can you hear me?"

Sherlock's eyes cracked open, unfocused. "Yes," was his croaking reply after a moment.

John relaxed immediately, setting to work on the bleeding gash on Sherlock's shoulder; from what, he wasn't sure yet.

"Alright. Can you talk to me, Sherlock? Where do you live?"  
"221B Baker Street," Sherlock responded obediently.

"That's it," John said. "What's your job?"

"Consulting detective. John… I'm aware that I'm bleeding… but I can confidently assure you… that-that I've only got… a… a… slight injury on my shoulder and… bruising. Cracked ribs, maybe. Something," Sherlock said, some of his usual assertiveness back in his voice. "Listen, John… Moriarty's here. He's got guns on us. You need to leave. I'll slow you down."

"Don't be a moron. The one time you're actually being considerate, and it's the wrong time," John said, shaking his head. "Does your back hurt at all?"

"No."

John helped to hoist Sherlock up, who leaned against him as they made for the exit.

"You don't actually think that I'd let you leave without finishing the game?" Moriarty asked, coming near the staircase near the exit. John froze where he was, and Sherlock immediately straightened, wincing almost imperceptibly, clearly bent on not appearing weak.

"You've had the game, Moriarty," Sherlock said, his baritone voice echoing through the warehouse. "I'm surprised. You're letting yourself go."

"Oh? How so?" Moriarty said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip.

"You don't think that I'd miss the fact that your shoes aren't shined? Or that your tie is missing a clip?"

"Wrong," Moriarty said, his voice too resonating. "Come on, Sherlock, don't be stupid."

Sherlock's eyes widened in realisation. "They're not permanent changes. _Obviously_. Your hair is still cut impeccably, your clothes are up to date - no, these are temporary changes. Were you running late to this little get-together?"  
"There you go. Thought you'd mess up a deduction for a moment there."

"I didn't."

"Actually, you did. Don't be dull. I wouldn't have played my turn if I had known you'd be so dull."

"Playing your turn? You haven't done anything. Moran had a bit of fun with a baseball bat and knife, but you… you've done nothing. Why?" Sherlock mused. "Why engage if you're not participating?"

"Oh, I am," Moriarty responded flatly, without missing a beat. "Your pet and I played. I still haven't gotten one myself, you know."

"A friend, you mean?" John interrupted. "Moran isn't one?"

"John, I'd love to insult you right now, but I really don't think your mind could comprehend it. You're a pawn. A pet. Leave the business to the adults. In answer to your question, Moran is… disposable."

"He could also shoot you in the head right now," John pointed out.

"He won't," Moriarty assured him. "No, he's busy hurting your _friend_."

The instant that the words left Moriarty's mouth, Sherlock had crumpled to the floor as a sickening _crack_ reverberated out. A ripping sound followed within half a second.

John twisted around, fury pulsing in his head, and tackled Moran to the floor before he could raise the bat or knife again. His knuckles flared as he punched him in the face; again, again, again, and he wouldn't stop, not until Moran's face was one bloody stump that looked like it had been stuck in a blender -

Moriarty was watching with interest; John could see him out of the corner of his eye. Moran had put up a fight and punched John several times back, but now he had the upperhand and wasn't even sure if Moran was still conscious - a crunching sound grinded beneath John's hand as he relentlessly pummeled this man, this man who had raised a bat against Sherlock. When he stopped to take a breath, Moran's face was hardly recognisable. Moriarty had left, presumably to ensure he didn't get caught.

He'd gone too far.

It didn't matter right now. What mattered was Sherlock, who was stuck down on the floor, his head bleeding heavily.

"Damn it, Sherlock! You're not dying! Not today!" John yelled at him, but the detective didn't stir - his eyes were closed. John grabbed the thin wrist, feeling for the pulse - it was there, but weak.

Had he already dialed 999? He couldn't remember, so pulled out his phone and called just in case. He resumed cradling Sherlock's head.

He'd seen many soldiers in Afghanistan who'd been bleeding in the head like this. They'd come to him, the army doctor - usually not on their own, since they were unconscious, obviously, they came in on a stretcher.

Many died.

"Not you, you idiot!" John muttered. "You're not dying. Not here."

There was dark red blood spilled onto the cold concrete below them, like a stagnant, thick puddle. Sherlock's skin was clammy, and John, swearing at himself for having forgotten, took off his own jacket and wrapped it around his friend.

The wound on his shoulder didn't seem as pertinent now. His head had been torn open. Blood was flowing steadily. Hypovolemic shock was dangerous, but John couldn't shake the nausea broiling through him.

 _No brain damage. Please, God, please, don't let him have brain damage. God, please._

"Police! Lestrade! _Where are you?!_ " John found himself screaming into the warehouse. "My friend, he's dying, you've got to save him!" He choked back a sob, and it caught in his throat. He wrapped the fabric he'd torn from his shirt tighter around Sherlock's head.

"Hang on, mate, help is coming," John told Sherlock, refusing to let his voice crack again. "They're coming. You're not dying. Not today. Not now. It's not even that deep, look-"

He grazed his hand against where he held the fabric tightly to Sherlock's head. "See? It's not that bad. Not bad at all. You're alright, I've got you."

He kept repeating these words like a broken record, but he couldn't stop.

"Sir, you need to let go!" a firm voice was saying. Someone pried him away, and John blinked up at the flashing lights and paramedics.

"He's hurt," he whispered. "He's dead."

There was a blanket around him, and he wasn't sure when someone had moved him but he was no longer in the warehouse; he was sitting on the edge of the ambulance.

 _Just like Sherlock did the night he almost took that bloody pill from the cabbie._

"He died. He died," John said, blankly, unable to process. "He died."

It took him several moments to understand that a woman was trying to interrupt him.

"Sir, he's not dead. He's hanging on. He's lost too much blood, but we've got him stabilised for now. He's alive. We think he's going to make it."

John trembled, looking at her. "He's not dead?"

"No, sir."

John shut his eyes, and opened them, and felt one hot tear slide down his cheek.

* * *

"They finally let me come in," John told a conscious Sherlock twenty-four hours later. "I thought you were dead, you know. I guess I'm not much of an army medic if I misdiagnosed death."

"Yes, well, you were always mediocre, John, but that's alright, because you're the conductor of light, remember?" Sherlock said mildly, flipping through the book he'd requested John bring. It was a beekeeping manual.

"Oh, thanks. You know, if you hadn't insulted me yesterday, we wouldn't have had an argument, and you wouldn't have been kidnapped."

"Ah. About that," Sherlock said, now looking slightly guilty.

"What?" John asked sharply, narrowing his eyes.

"Well, you see, I was dreadfully bored - you must understand, John, a mind such as mine is not content to remain immobile. I asked Moriarty if he'd like to play a game."

John inhaled. "Obviously you didn't mean a friendly game of golf."

"Golf? Please, that's for the simple-minded. As I was saying, I requested that we meet up. I was hoping he'd have a good case or something for me to solve. As you're most likely aware, he just had his thug Moran attack me instead. It was so boring."

"Boring?! And honestly, what did you think he'd do? Bring a cold case or file with him and tea? You - are - a - moron!"

"Not unlike yourself," Sherlock retorted.

"Sherlock, look. I don't care - that much - if you insult me. Just… don't do that again, okay?" John said, rubbing his hands over his eyes and sitting down.

"If my Boswell requests that, I suppose I'll oblige," was Sherlock's snarky reply a moment later, but the sarcasm was so Sherlock-esque that John couldn't help but laugh in relief that the detective was okay.

 **Wow. I guess this deserves the "most overdone, corny, and stupid chapter ever" because I think I might have laid that on a bit too thick. Hope it was satisfactory, though, and again I'm so sorry for the really long delay in getting this out!**

 **I'd be so excited for any suggestions for stories (I promise that I still haven't forgotten about the ones already requested!) and I'd also be incredibly grateful for any follows / favourites! Thanks everyone!**


	42. Anaphylaxis - Sherlock

**Hello everyone! Miss me? Miss me? Miss me? Miss me? Miss me? Miss me? Miss me? Miss me? Miss me? Miss me (sorry, I couldn't resist)? I'm the person that randomly dropped off of the face of for a long, long time without any sort of explanation. Basically, school started and I have been extremely stressed with often five hours of homework a night and track. Also, I've been binging on Supernatural at the same time (I'll be writing my first SPN fanfiction soon so stay tuned). I admit that I sort of began drowning in the depths of another fandom and couldn't find the time to write Sherlock fanfics.**

 **I had written down the ideas that people gave me to write for this series, but I need to start on a clean slate, so I'm going to just write some of my own for now. I'm really, truly, extremely sorry to everyone, especially to those who have been active and leave me support on here. I appreciate all of you so much!**

 **Now that I've been monologuing for a long time, enjoy this frankly improvised, droning chapter that I really had no idea of where it was going.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

"Are we out of tea?" John asked Sherlock, digging his fists into his eyes after opening the cupboard to find that the tea was gone.

"No, it's invisible," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Don't ask unnecessary questions."

"Did you drink it all?" John demanded. "I just bought some yesterday!"

"I needed it. Hour ninety-four isn't as easy to get to as you'd think, but now I'm out of caffeine," Sherlock said, taking a sip of the water that was next to him.

John paused, his arm suspended in air towards the fridge door. "What? How do you mean? You're not-"

"Staying awake for as long as possible? I am," Sherlock confirmed. One glance at the detective proved the words to be true - he was pale, shivering slightly, his eyes particularly dull (compared to their usually alert appearance), and his hair unruly.  
"Why?! That's so unhealthy, Sherlock, there are so many potential-"

"Science," was the detective's resolute answer. "John, I'm studying the effects that sleep has on the frankly fragile human body. I began to conduct the experiment after I woke up on Tuesday morning, and I haven't slept since."

"It's Saturday!"

"John, I admire your powers of observation. You're really becoming a very astute individual," Sherlock said snidely, standing up and wrapping his blue dressing gown around himself tighter. "I must admit that it is extremely…" He paused, sweeping into the living room to pick up the violin. "Limiting," he decided.

"Yeah. Just, take it easy, mate," John said. "Look, when I was in Afghanistan, there were times that we had to stay up a week straight. It sort of stays with you, you know? Especially the hallucinations."

"Yes, I'm excited for that part," Sherlock said, pointing his bow at John. He glanced at his watch. "I expect that any moment I might see a hallucination."  
"You do realise that your cognitive abilities are impaired by lack of sleep?" John intoned. "As well as motor skills, reflexes, and immune system." He rummaged in the cupboard for the coffee and began to brew enough for both him and Sherlock.  
"I'm not a moron, John!" Sherlock snapped. "Naturally I conducted research before performing the experiment. As for cognitive abilities, I am confident that willpower will prevail over exhaustion."

"How about your immune system?" John asked, pouring the steaming hot coffee into two mugs and discreetly opening the cupboard door while Sherlock plucked at the strings of his violin.

"I'm not concerned. If I happen to get sick - which I haven't for seven years now - I don't intend on letting it impair my work," Sherlock assured John. John slipped his pill bottle back into the cupboard, twirling the cap shut, and handed Sherlock the mug of coffee.

"Well, you're insane," John said conclusively. "Drink the coffee, then, the caffeine will definitely help."

Sherlock obliged, taking a sip of the coffee that was certainly scorching hot.

"Alright, I'm going to pick up groceries - and tea," John said, glancing at his watch. "I'll probably be back in half an hour."

He left the flat, smiling to himself slightly, positive that Sherlock would be asleep by the time that he returned - he'd slipped some of his sleeping pills into the detective's coffee (that was also conveniently decaffeinated). Of course, he felt slightly guilty about having purposefully disturbed his friend's experiment, but his health was jeopardised, and as a doctor John couldn't bear to see that happen.

* * *

However, when John returned to the flat, he was met by an angry, swaying Sherlock who looked dead on his feet.

"John!" Sherlock demanded. "I need you to make the tea, now! I'm falling… asleep!"

"How are you awake, mate?" John asked, alarmed. "I… I put sleeping pills in your coffee, I thought it'd knock you out!"  
"You… you… what?" Sherlock said, so taken aback that he dropped his angry expression; but it returned a moment later. "John, you know that this branch of science is fascinating to me! How could you disrupt an experiment like this?!" He sank to the couch, disappointment pervading his entire disposition.

John was regretting the honesty that had overtaken him a second ago; why had he told Sherlock that he drugged him with sleeping pills?

"Look, Sherlock, you're hurting yourself. Just go to bed," John suggested. "Christmas Eve is tomorrow!"  
"What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock muttered, his words thick. He blinked rapidly, clearly fighting the drug.

"How about we put in a film?" John asked, sitting down and turning on the television. Sherlock didn't answer; he was staring at John with an accusatory expression when his phone rang. His wiry hand shot out and snatched the phone with quicker reflexes than John could've predicted and accepted the call.

"Lestrade? Is there a case?" Sherlock asked quickly, standing up and staggering slightly. He paused, a smile growing on his face. "Brilliant. I'll be… putting on my coat." He apprehended his scarf, throwing it on and watching John. "Are you coming?" he asked, his eyes closed for a full two seconds.

"Yeah, yeah, sure," John said, utterly bemused, and followed Sherlock into the taxi.

A dusting of snow had fallen appropriately for the holiday season, and it was suitable for the taxi ride (John's last hope for Sherlock falling asleep while the effects of the drug still fought against his will to stay awake). They climbed in (for a thirty minute drive, fortunately) and the darkness of the night, combined with the thick crunching of the tires against the snow, had done its trick within ten minutes. John stole a glance at his friend, who had passed out against the cold window.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock stumbled out into the kitchen looking irritated with John, his eyes red from the sleep deprivation. The detective opened the cupboard to the utensils, paused, realised he was looking in the drawer without any reason, and sat down at the counter rather clumsily. John eyed him curiously, unaccustomed to Sherlock acting so… normal. Human. Fallible.

"What… happened?" Sherlock asked, his voice raspy and dry.

"Well, you passed out in the cab, and then I had to half drag you back into the flat," John said, offering a cup of tea. "Want some?"  
"You didn't drug it, I presume?" Sherlock said warily, sniffing the drink and gingerly taking a sip. He pressed his fingers into his temples sharply, rubbing slightly, and sighed. "John, you are clearly incapable of _not_ decimating my experiments. I'm not a child, and I certainly don't need you to take care of me. Now, if you please, leave me alone - go annoy Mrs. Hudson or 'socialise', whatever, but I need you _out of my sight_." The last words came out as a snap, and John could sense the angry-genius-feeling-grouchy act coming on, and he was quick to heed Sherlock despite the sting they left.

It wasn't as though he didn't mind Sherlock's rude words, but there was no benefit in enduring the wrath of a sleep deprived sociopath, so he moved up to his bedroom to read rather than sitting in his armchair like he usually did. Best for both of them - he had royally screwed up, drugging his friend, and there was no doubt that Sherlock was honest with his statement about needing John out of the kitchen. Likewise, John couldn't help but feel irritated towards Sherlock - if he hadn't been so stubborn and immature, they wouldn't have gotten into this bloody mess.

A sudden crash from down below followed by a curse made John's hair stand on end. Sherlock rarely swore. He leapt out of bed, instincts telling him to check on Sherlock despite him telling him only minutes ago that he didn't need to be taken care of.

"You alright, mate?" John called cautiously down the stairs.

There was a pause.

"John!" the baritone voice said, but it wasn't the smooth baritone that had insulted and impressed many - it was panicked.

John ran down the stairs two at a time to find Sherlock clutching his mouth at the counter.

"What? Did you burn yourself on the tea?" John asked, coming over quickly. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock only gestured at his tea. John picked it up and sniffed it; it smelled just as he had served it to him earlier.

"Sherlock, I need you to breathe, okay? What happened?" John asked as calmly as possible, medical instincts kicking in; he grabbed Sherlock's wrist to feel for his pulse while simultaneously looking at his eyes.

The pulse was too quick. Abnormally quick. Not to mention Sherlock's absurd panic; it was too out of character for the man who dripped of confidence. John desperately looked around the counter to see the almond creamer sitting on the counter.

"Shit!" he said under his breath, running down the hall to grab his phone and dial 999 and then sprinting back down the other end to rummage wildly for the epipen that he knew he'd seen lying around the flat somewhere.

Sherlock was allergic to almonds; it was something that they both were aware of but didn't often mention - John had bought regular creamer for Sherlock and almond creamer for himself since he preferred it, and not only was Sherlock not airborne but capable of managing what he consumed.  
Sleep deprived, however, Sherlock had slipped and used the wrong creamer, clearly.

John began tossing all of the items out of the drawers, searching fervently for the epipen - he was blurting into the phone at the same time that he needed an ambulance, because his friend was having an allergic reaction - and raced back to check on Sherlock, whose mouth was clearly swelling.

"Hey, you're okay," John assured him. "The ambulance is coming, okay? Breathe, Sherlock, take a deep breath."  
"Can't-" Sherlock choked out, his eyes beginning to water and his face turning red with the lack of oxygen.

John grabbed his shoulders gently. "Sherlock, I know that it's hard to breathe, but I need you to try for me, alright? I'm going to keep searching, just focus on steady, measured breaths." He ran back to the junk drawer - _why don't we organise this more often?!_ \- and barely heard Sherlock's voice:  
"Desk drawer."

In an instant John was in the living room, digging viciously through the desk drawers when he victoriously pulled out the epipen. He uncapped it, coming back over to Sherlock.

"This is going to hurt a bit," he warned, before thrusting the needle into the Sherlock's leg. Sherlock was barely staying straight, nearly keeling over, and John led him over to the couch. He then returned to the medicine cabinet to find medication that would slow the reaction before the ambulance arrived. Sherlock had calmed slightly, but there was still a manic look in his eyes.

"Breathe, in, out," John directed, breathing exaggeratedly himself so that Sherlock could follow. "Everything's okay, the ambulance is coming."  
Sherlock only nodded, his eyes shut.

* * *

"All in all, not one of your proudest moments?" John asked Sherlock an hour later once they were in the hospital and Sherlock was stabilised. "I told you, your sleep experiment was dangerous. If you weren't so tired, you wouldn't have grabbed the bloody _almond_ creamer-"

"It's your fault that the creamer was in the refrigerator in the first place, John. In fact, I'm surprised. A medical man like you should know it's not worth the risk."

He'd struck a nerve. That had been gnawing at John for the past few hours, and now he looked solemnly at his friend.

"Damn, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," he said, rubbing a hand through his hair. "You're right, you're so right. I swear I won't buy anything you're allergic to again."

"I suppose it's penance," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Penance?"

"It means self-punishment. Karma, if you will," Sherlock said, strangely patient.  
"No, I know what it means - I mean, why penance?" John clarified.

"All of the chemicals I keep lying around the flat that are dangerous - it's about time you leave something dangerous in the kitchen," Sherlock said, smirking slightly. His smile faded. "Don't speak of this to anyone. Especially not Mycroft," he said, and looked positively terrified at the prospect of his older brother discovering he'd given himself an allergic reaction because of being overtired.

"It would be very good blackmail, you know…" John mused.

"You're not serious," Sherlock said, looking faint.

"No, I won't tell anyone," John assured him, smiling.

 **Wow. I haven't written in a really, really long time. I have no idea if that sounded good or not.**

 **Anyone, reviews are very much appreciated!  
I'll try to update more often, but I'll also be starting some SPN fics :) Thanks for reading!**


	43. Fight - Sherlock

**Believe it or not, I found time to sit down and write despite how much I wanted to read something.**

 **This chapter was inspired by the numerous SPN fics with the same plot bunny. I have no idea if my description of a bar (or a bar fight, for that matter) is accurate, but you'll have to bear with me because I'm fifteen and have no idea what a bar at night is like.**

 **Warnings for gore and language.**

 **Disclaimer: As much as it pains me to say this… I don't own Sherlock (or else we'd be at series 10).**

 **Side disclaimer that I'm not a doctor nor trained in medical matters, so forgive me for all errors.**

"You need a new case, Sherlock," John called absently into the flat as he shut his laptop. "There are people begging me on my blog to write a new one."

"Aren't you popular?" Sherlock responded snidely, his voice far away from his bedroom. He'd been in a horrible mood for the past two weeks; London had been abnormally quiet and Lestrade hadn't had any good murders (above a seven, at least) nor had Sherlock received any clients. John had been trying to distract him with other activities, but it had all been in vain; the detective had spent much of his time recently sulking over the lack of a case.

"You need to get out of the flat, Sherlock. It's been nearly two days," John noted, stretching. He wasn't sure if his flatmate could hear him, but then Sherlock came shambling into the room with a foul expression. He was wearing his blue dressing gown, his tee shirt wrinkled underneath, and his hair was unruly and sticking up. His pajama pants had chemical stains on them and one glance at his face told John that Sherlock hadn't slept that night.

"You look terrible," John said, not intending to sound rude but rather surprised.

Sherlock glared at him, his eyes flickering up and down, before whirling around to go into the kitchen, his dressing gown twirling behind him.

"Oh, and you're absolutely radiant yourself, John. A stressful day at work, a late night out with Stamford, and turned down by a girl you thought you were getting on well with?"  
John scowled. "Don't bother telling me how you-"

"Your socks told me the first part," Sherlock said smoothly, ruffling his hands through his curly hair.

"I'm not wearing any-"

"Exactly. It means you showered last night, before heading out to the bar. You always shower in the morning, and typically wear your socks to bed. However, you elected to take a second shower last night, and you're typically a conservative man. That suggests that you needed time to yourself before leaving the flat. It's possible that you could've been stressed about a future event or something someone told you, but it's more likely that you had a stressful day at work, because you also came home a bit late."  
"Okay, fair enough. But how did you know I was with Stamford? And that the girl… turned me down?" John winced at the last part.

"You received two texts from Stamford yesterday. Simple deduction."

"You were reading my texts?" John demanded, standing up.

"No. Though I have in the past, I did not on this particular occasion. I only saw the notification on your phone, nothing more. Why else would Stamford text you twice the same night that you go out until midnight? If it were one text, I might not say it was him, because if he invited you that would be one text for the invitation and then one other for confirmation after your response. However, it was two, and it fit nicely with your absence last evening."

"You think you're so brilliant, don't you? A few guesses and it makes you Sherlock bloody brilliant Holmes-"

"And the girl. You left wearing your best jumper, clearly to impress. Double-date, perhaps?" Sherlock paused to inject his opinion. "Frankly, I don't understand the purpose of a double-date at all - or a date, for that matter - there is a profusion of ways that you could better spend your time." He scratched at his face, wrinkling his nose as though in distaste. "Nevertheless, you chose to waste your Friday night participating in that… absurdity, and it was also apparent from your carefully styled hair and polished shoes. The fact that she turned you down was trickier, but all I needed to do was listen for any text alerts, and you received none. If the night had gone well, you probably texted her saying so, but you received no response. Perhaps it was mutual, and you didn't send a text yourself, but your obsessively frequent checking of your phone confirms my suspicions that you're hoping for a text back that I assure you that you will receive; she's not interested."  
John stalked into the kitchen. "You're a dick, you know that?" he asked. "Could you be any more blunt?"

Sherlock paused. "Yes, actually. If you'd like, I could tell you where you went wrong."  
"No, thanks," John said briefly, and went upstairs.

* * *

"You were wrong," John informed Sherlock over lunch.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I highly doubt it."

There was an expectant pause in which John simply looked at Sherlock with a smug look on his face.

"Want me to say?"

"Don't be daft, John, just tell me," Sherlock snapped in response. "I pride myself on my ability to tolerate my errors because I, unlike others, utilize them in order to perform better in the future."

"Yeah, okay, whatever you say," John said. "Eileen texted me back."

"Who is she? What does she mean to me?" Sherlock asked, his expression turning bored.

"My date, from last night."

"Oh? Well, John, you have, admittedly, caught me off guard. I did not expect a response."

"Yeah, well, she responded. Here's a photo of us that Stamford took." He slid his phone across to Sherlock, who ignored it and instead studied intently the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock? Did you want to see?"

"No, I have no interest."

"Hey, Sherlock - this is one of those times that we talked about," John said elusively.

"Pardon?"

"You know. Your machine moments. Come on, mate. Humor me. Act human and look at the photo. It's what friends do."

"What, tell the other that they need to examine a pointless photo because it would make them 'human'?" Sherlock asked, nevertheless snatching up the phone. He briefly ran his eyes over it. "Enthralling. Thank you, John, for sharing; that was simply captivating." He began to push the phone back at John before grabbing it again and analysing it closer.

"Excellent, John, you've found a case!" he said excitedly, sweeping himself off of the chair. "I've been looking for this woman for a year now! She's not Eileen, she's Eleanor Sowman, one of Moriarty's people, and she's close to him - no doubt she has information."

John's mouth dropped open. "You're not serious, Sherlock - I mean, come on! She's a mother, and she works as a teacher at the primary school!"

"Clearly, she lied. I knew I was correct about her lack of interest. She's not interested in you, I'm sure she's more interested in me. No doubt Moriarty set you two up in order to gain information on me. John, arrange a date tonight with her! Yes, yes, this is brilliant!" Sherlock's last words came out as a shout as he strode into the bathroom and slammed the door. John watched him leave, slightly crestfallen, before picking a piece of lint off of his sweater and supposing that he should change.

* * *

Eight hours later, Sherlock Holmes was pacing the living room waiting for John. He'd showered, and his hair was no longer sitting like a nest upon his head but bouncing with every step. He'd put on a white button down, complete with the suit, and was holding his coat and scarf in anticipation for John to emerge from upstairs. John had scheduled a dinner with her, and they were preparing to meet at a bar. Sherlock would hasten to find a seat behind them to take hold of the situation once he had a chance.

"I really don't like you, you know?" John grumbled. "I'm about to set my date up to my interrogated by Sherlock Holmes. She'll really be interested in me after this."

"Let's go," Sherlock said, practically bounding down the stairs to hail a cab. "Hurry, John! It's the first case in weeks!"

Thirty minutes later, John was seated at the bar with Eileen (no, it was Eleanor, he reminded himself), talking as animatedly as possible with her whilst envisioning her making plans with Moriarty. It wasn't a pleasant mental image.

"What are you doing this weekend?" John asked to attempt conversation, drinking his wine.

"Oh, you know, probably attending my son's football game, or listening to my daughter practice the trumpet." Eleanor shook her head. "She tries, bless her, but she can't play the bloody thing at all!"

John attempted to turn the conversation to Sherlock, to confirm that Eleanor was only there to get closer to the detective for Moriarty.

"Yeah, my flatmate plays the violin. He's decent - really talented, actually - but he plays it at three in the morning! I mean, who does that?" He also shook his head, taking another sip of his drink.

"Oh? Have you tried talking to him?" Eleanor asked, smiling. "I could always come over and try to talk to him. What's his name?"  
"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"The detective?!" Eleanor enthused, leaning forward. "I saw him in the newspaper! Genius, I heard."  
"An annoying genius," John laughed. "He's brilliant, though. Can solve a murder within seconds. Deduces even quicker."  
"Deduces?"  
"Yeah, he can take one glance at you and tell you your whole life story," John said, feeling movement behind him.

"John is correct," came the baritone voice. "In fact, _Eleanor_ , one glance at you tells me that you're not really a mother. You're working for a certain Jim Moriarty and you've been designated to get closer to John in order to get closer to me."

There was a moment in which Eleanor's eyes contracted, but she recovered quickly and stood. "Cat's out of the bag, then," she said, gripping her purse. "How'd you know?"  
"No deduction is necessary when one remains aware of their local news," Sherlock said flatly, his eyes not wavering from Eleanor's face.

There was another pause during which a group of drunk men behind them laughed loudly. The crack of wood striking a pool ball rang through the air and incited Eleanor to move forward. She leaned towards Sherlock, glancing around quickly, and let out an ear-splitting scream.

"Please, don't! Get away from me, please!" she cried out, screaming again, stumbling backwards, and falling to the ground hard. Sherlock had frozen in shock, his eyes wide and confused, before making eye contact with John. His expression was one that John had never seen before, an utmost look of _John, what do I do?!_ , and John acted quickly, pulling Sherlock back.

"Yeah, let's get out of here," he muttered. "It's not worth it, Sherlock, let's go, quickly."

Eleanor was crying on the ground. The drunk men that were in the back lumbered over.

"What'd you do to her?" the one in the front asked aggressively. He helped Eleanor up, who sniffed loudly and shot the briefest of smiles at Sherlock before returning to her façade. The man pulled her back, appearing to murmur words of comfort to her, before turning back to Sherlock. He seemed to be the most sober, a short man that couldn't have been much taller than John, but what he lacked in height he appeared to make up for in strength. "Answer me. You think it's okay to hurt that girl? Leave her alone," the man growled, jabbing Sherlock in the chest. Sherlock took a step back, looking extremely taken aback.

"I didn't touch her. All evidence suggests I didn't, if you'd bothered to use your eyes - or rather, your brain. If you take note of my hands, the particular pigment around my palm justifies that-"

"No, no. Now is _not_ the time," John hissed. "Shut up, Sherlock."

"A nerd who thinks he can deny hurting her," the man snorted. "You think your fancy words are going to convince me that you didn't do anything? I saw her fall, man. Don't deny that, you bastard."

John knew from experience that Sherlock's pride inhibited him from walking away without the last word, and he tugged more forcefully at his friend. He turned to the man.

"Alright, let's just… he lacks a bit of the social cues, so really, he didn't mean to hurt her, he just got a bit carried away. Please, forgive him. We'll just… leave now," John said, feeling Sherlock's indignant glare onto himself now. He shot a quick apologetic glance to him while grabbing his coat.

"Apologise to her," the man insisted. "I swear, I am _this_ close to calling the police."

"I didn't touch her. I see no reason to apologise."

"Sherlock!" John said warningly. "Apologise, now."

Sherlock paused to look at the short man who was standing with a protective stance in front of Eleanor, who appeared to be enjoying herself. Suddenly, John knew what was coming, and a sense of dread filled him.

"I think that you should be the one apologising, in fact," Sherlock said arrogantly to the man.

"Sherlock, don't!" John pleaded.

"You've been in a fight with your girlfriend. It's obvious. You're doing this because you want to - what's the phrase? - _hook up_ with Miss Eleanor Sowman and make your girlfriend jealous."

"Stop, Sherlock!" John shouted.

"Really, it's so apparent that your motive for helping her is bitterness towards your girlfriend that I'm shocked no one else has noticed. I feel that it's my responsibility as a human to warn you that she works for a highly dangerous man and has murdered at a minimum five people within the last two years. So, despite your desperate, seemingly-heroic moves to win Eleanor in order to cause your girlfriend envy, I doubt that the repercussions will be worth it."

There was a sudden loud shout as the man lunged forward to tackle Sherlock. The detective barely side-stepped him, looking amused.

"Get him, Devon!" one of the drunk men cheered.

"You arse," the man, Devon, said, gripping the table. He dived again at Sherlock, who quickly slid backwards onto the table to avoid being knocked into the ground. Several glasses were pushed and shattered loudly on the floor.

"Look, everyone, let's just be rational and talk about this," John said desperately, moving forward. "Sherlock, you moron, apologise!"  
"Piss off," Sherlock said, straightening the collar to his coat.

"Apologise!" Devon yelled. "You arrogant arse-hole!" Several of the drunk men hesitantly moved forward. John leapt forward to pull Devon back, and as if on cue, once he joined, so did the other drunk men. From the corner of his eye he saw Eleanor slip out of the bar.

"Stop it!" he implored, thrashing to get Devon off of him and deploying a quick punch to the man's face. It happened quickly, and he hadn't thought about it until it was done, but immediately two other men came towards him, throwing fists; John was able to block one but not the other and he staggered backwards. Meanwhile, he could see Sherlock dodging nimbly, but there were two other drunks approaching him. It didn't matter how intelligent Sherlock might be, or how drunk the men might be; five on one were terrible odds.

Sherlock was nailed over the head with a beer bottle - John saw it as though in slow motion, and he cried out in warning while running forward to help his idiot of a friend - and went down. The men began to kick at him, relentless and uncoordinated in their drunken state.

"Get off of him! That's my friend!" John shouted, tackling one man to the floor and immediately getting up again. There was the sudden sound of sirens and John cursed; someone must have called the cops. Sure enough, several cops came charging through the door moments later, shouting at the men, who all froze, blinking rapidly and backing away from Sherlock.

Sherlock.

He was unconscious, curled onto the floor with his hands still over his head. Blood was flowing steadily out of his nose and there was no telling with his big coat what injuries lied underneath. John fell to his side.

"Sherlock?!" he asked. "Can you hear me?" He didn't dare move Sherlock for fear of a spinal injury; he'd seen plenty in his life. Blood was matted in Sherlock's curly hair, and splinters of glass were on the floor in a halo around his head from the beer bottle. The scent of blood and alcohol pervaded the bar, and the sounds of several women crying in the back were audible. The police were taking care of the drunk men and the sounds of the ambulance arriving were accompanied by the flashing lights that illuminated the bar.

"John?" came Sherlock's voice; foggy, slurred, almost unintelligible.

"Hey, Sherlock - don't move, okay? You've just been in a bit of a scuffle. The police are here, and the paramedics are coming in now." He gripped Sherlock's wrist, feeling for his pulse.

"Over here!" John said loudly to the paramedics, beckoning them and letting them take over immediately. Blood was beginning to form a small stream that traveled from Sherlock's body and down the slightly tilted wood floor. Sherlock had passed out again, looking frighteningly pale.

"He needs more oxygen!" came the paramedic's voice. "Get him an oxygen mask! There's internal damage to his left lung!"

"He's got ecchymosis, watch his chest!"

"Get him in the ambulance, we need to get him to the hospital!"

"BP low!"

The voices rang out and John knew what every word meant, having spent years as an army medic, but knowing didn't offer any reassurance.  
"I'm sorry, sir, but you have to follow behind us; there's no room in the ambulance!" a nurse was telling John; he'd barely even realised he was trying to follow them. He nodded weakly, and wheeled around to run down the pavement, searching desperately for a cab. He saw one, and a woman was climbing in.

"Excuse me!" he called, sprinting over, "I'm so sorry, really sorry - my friend - he's in the ambulance, he's hurt, please, can I take the cab?!" The woman backed away and John slammed the door after scrambling into the cab. "The hospital!" he directed, and gripped the seat as the cab took off.

* * *

"You can come in now, sir," a nurse said, coming into the waiting room nearly two hours later.

"How is he?" John asked, fearing the answer.

"He just went through surgery. We gave him a thoracotomy. Mr. Holmes had bleeding around his lungs, and we were able to resolve it by making an incision along his ribcage and preventing excess blood in the lungs. We also sealed some leaking blood vessels with a heat probe. In other words, the surgery was successful."  
"But…?" John prompted.

The nurse lowered her eyes. "His spleen was ruptured. I'm afraid he'll have to remain in hospital for quite some time so that we can keep an eye on him. He's heading for a second surgery in two hours, for a splenectomy due to massive internal bleeding."  
"What are his… chances?" John asked, fear pounding through his veins.

"We think he'll pull through. Right now, our biggest concern is the bleeding. I'll come let you know how he is as soon as it's over."

"Yeah. Right. Er, thank you," John said, running his hands through his hair.

* * *

Fifteen minutes.

John downed a cup of coffee, anxiously tapping his fingers against the chair.

Thirty minutes.

A mother and her crying daughter arrived with a fractured wrist.

Forty-five minutes.

The fish tank in the waiting room was moved out of the room by the janitor to have it cleaned.

One hour.

Mycroft texted John, asking what happened. John found that he didn't care about telling Mycroft what happened and put his phone down without responding.

An hour and fifteen minutes.

An hour and thirty minutes.

An hour and forty-five minutes.

Two hours.

"John?" the nurse said, emerging from the west wing. "Sherlock's finished surgery."

"And?" John said, standing up so quickly that he was hardly aware of the fact that he'd knocked his coffee to the ground. A small puddle of luke-warm brown liquid spilled across the floor, and the janitor shot John a dirty look.

"He's going to be okay. We've got him stabilised and we're easing up on the sedatives, so he should be waking up shortly, if you'd like to see him now."

"Yes, please," John said quickly, following the nurse.

Sherlock was lying, eyes half open, with a nasal cannula attached to him. He was limp, his dark hair across his face reminding John forcibly of Snow White.

"Hey, mate," he said, sitting down next to Sherlock.

"John…?" was the faint reply. "What…"

"You decided to continue to provoke Devon in the bar. He attacked you, and the others joined in," John said, and now that he was sure Sherlock was okay, anger flooded through him. "I can't believe you. You're an idiot. I _told_ you to stop, and did you listen? No! You kept telling that man all about how he wanted to make his stupid girlfriend jealous, and this whole thing could have been avoided if you hadn't been so damn proud!"

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said weakly from the bed.

John glared at him before sighing. "Yeah. I know. Just - don't do that, ever again! Next time, you're listening to me."

"Yes," Sherlock said obediently, his eyes unfocused from the drugs, yet he managed to snark, "I'll listen to you once you respond to Mycroft and tell him to go away."

"How'd you know that he texted me?! Or that I didn't respond?!" John said, laughing against his will, but Sherlock had fallen asleep with the smallest of smirks on his face.

 **I hope that was okay, and not too boring. Forgive me for my portrayal of irritated, arrogant, slightly annoying Sherlock.**

 **Reviews would be lovely! Thank you so much!**


	44. Rope - Sherlock and John

**Warning: Mentions of suicide and drugs. There is** _ **VERY**_ **sensitive content in this chapter… please read at your own risk.**

 **There is heavy angst in this chapter. I was writing without thinking, and it's way too much angst/darkness. Please, please, please read with caution, because this is the darkest chapter I've ever written, BY FAR. I'm actually scared to publish this on here…. This chapter is definitely an M rating for dark content. I didn't intend for it to be so dark… I was just writing and it sort of happened without me meaning to.**

 **So, I cannot stress this enough - very, very, VERY dark fic! I apologize in advance, please forgive me!**

 **This is set after TFP.**

It was an October day.

It wasn't one that was particularly memorable; the sky was bright blue and clear except for a few plump clouds drifting lazily across. The trees were vibrant with dying leaves and many were beginning to shed already, blanketing the sidewalks with dry leaves that tumbled in the crosswinds of passing cars. People continued their daily traverses through London, but now the short-sleeves and sandals were abandoned for autumn jackets and boots. The smell of apple cider had filled Baker Street since Mrs. Hudson had made a vat of it, and its warm scent had wafted upstairs into 221B.

Sherlock had been practicing a new tune on his violin. It was strikingly mournful, John noticed as he sipped his coffee while reading the newspaper. The notes were relatively quick-paced and deep until he seemed to reach a climax where the low tones were swapped for high ones, and the change was so smooth and fast that one second the song was relaxing and the next it was practically depressing.

"What's that called?" John asked when Sherlock had finished and placed his violin down to rosin his bow. "It's nice."

"Danny Boy," Sherlock answered in his usual clipped tone before adding, "It's Irish. One of the first songs my teacher taught me."

John glanced up, startled; Sherlock rarely offered elaboration when it wasn't necessary. "You had a teacher?" he said, surprised.

Once he considered it, he supposed it wasn't that odd, but for some reason he'd always pictured his flatmate playing the violin expertly since he was a toddler.

Sherlock too realized the unnecessary question and only gave John a look that clearly read, _Why on earth wouldn't I have a teacher? Don't ask stupid questions._

John stood up, setting down the newspaper. "I'm going to make some eggs," he reported to Sherlock, who said nothing in response.

He waited pointedly, standing with his arm outstretched on the fridge handle. When Sherlock didn't look again, he cleared his throat. The sharp eyes flickered up to his face, to his arm, and back to the sheet music he was annotating.

"Want some eggs?" John finally asked.

"No, thank you."

That was to be expected. John took out the eggs and milk, and on second thought he made enough eggs for two.

Sure enough, when he had put scrambled eggs on a second plate, Sherlock meandered into the kitchen to take them. It was an unspoken system they seemed to have, and though Sherlock seemed to take no notice of it, it happened nearly every weekend morning. The detective sat placidly on the stool next to John and they ate in silence as the morning rays crept from the edge of the table to across the counter.

"You got some new cases," John said once they had eaten and he had settled at the table in the living room with his laptop.

"Hm. Read them," Sherlock requested, pacing the room. He was still in his tee shirt and pajama pants, accompanied by his blue silk dressing gown which swished behind him as he walked.

John obliged. "The first is from an elderly woman in Woolwich. Apparently, her plants keep dying even though she's watering them the proper amount and giving them the right amount of light. She thinks it's sabotage from her next-door-neighbor, whom she competes with to have the most plants." He awaited Sherlock's response.

"Dull. If it's the neighbor, that's boring. If it's her own lack of understanding on how to care for a plant, that is equally boring. Proceed."

John scrolled to the next entry. "Alright… this man is saying that his son keeps leaving the house during the night, and he doesn't know how he's sneaking out nor who he's meeting."

Sherlock stopped his pacing for a moment to throw a look of disbelief at John.

"Okay, then," John muttered. "Moving on. This mother says that her daughter committed suicide - hanged herself - and the police said it was suicide… but she thinks it was murder." John looked up at Sherlock. "This sounds like-"

"A case!" Sherlock interrupted, glee flitting across his face. "I love when the authorities are wrong, it really emphasizes their stupidity, don't you think?"

John stood up, automatically prepared to change out of his pajamas, knowing that Sherlock would be impatient. "Are we talking to the mom first? Or the police, for the records?"

"The mother," Sherlock said, his voice short yet excited, and he disappeared to his bedroom to presumably put on one of his fancy button-downs.

John got dressed as well, and after a glance at the trees outside - which appeared to be shivering in the October wind - he put on a knit sweater. Sure enough, when he returned downstairs, Sherlock had put on a white button-down and a suit jacket.

"A new game, John!" Sherlock told him, his eyes glinting as he whirled his scarf around his neck and yanked his Belstaff on.

* * *

The mother was a small redhead. Her clothing was wrinkled and her house smelled like cats; it was a bit pungent and John felt it tickle his throat as soon as he stepped inside.

He looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and saw the detective surveying the room. No doubt he'd already collected enough information to tell her entire life story.

"Your daughter had crippling depression and her father died right before her apparent 'suicide', Mrs. Henry," Sherlock said as the woman led them into the living room. "You're unemployed and you dropped out of high school, so I doubt you're not particularly clever - how did you come to the conclusion that your daughter was murdered?"

The insult was so quick that John almost missed it, and he first shot Sherlock a reprimanding look before apologizing hastily to the woman, who barely took note.

"My daughter confessed to me, shortly before her death, that she was an atheist," the woman said. Sherlock's expression cleared.

"Hang on - what does that have to do with anything?" John asked, feeling like he was missing something.

It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling.

"Her family is devout," Sherlock explained quickly. "If the daughter was an atheist, then she wouldn't believe in an afterlife."

"And she told me that she was afraid of dying," the mother continued. "We had a long conversation. She had depression, but she had no intentions of killing herself - she was absolutely terrified of dying." She picked up a tissue and blew her nose loudly.

"May I ask, Mrs. Henry, if your daughter was close with your uncle?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward.

"But what does that have to do with-" the woman said, confusion crossing her freckled face.  
"You know, I really don't have time for your silly questions. I've already solved this and I'm only double-checking for your sake. So please, do us all a favor and answer," Sherlock said brusquely, looking at her unblinkingly.

The woman looked from Sherlock to John, a stunned expression on her face. "She was," she said quietly.

"That's all we need to know," Sherlock said, standing up. "Thank you for your time. I'll be in touch."

They left the flat and entered the cold October air again.

"Okay, explain," John said as soon as they were outside. "How did you already solve the bloody thing?"

"I recognized her uncle in the photographs," Sherlock said quietly. "He's murdered before. Got away with it, but I couldn't prove it to the police. There wasn't enough evidence."

"But how do you know he killed her? Maybe she did kill herself."

Sherlock loosened his scarf as they climbed into the cab and he gave an address to the cabbie.

"She didn't."

"But how do you _know_?" John persisted. "I mean, you've got to have some internal reasoning. We need to make sure that you're right before we go storming in to Scotland Yard demanding the uncle's arrest."  
"I know because the mother knows that it's the uncle that killed her," Sherlock snapped. "She knows it's him, it was obvious from her behavior when I asked about him - she must have found out somehow. But it's her brother, and she didn't dare testify against him, so she had no evidence."

John shook his head in amazement. "That's so simple, but I would have never figured that out."

"It's simple once you apply knowledge of basic human tendencies and behavior."  
"Yeah, easy for you to say," John said, smiling. "So, where are we going?"  
"We're going to confront the uncle."

John felt his smile slide off his face quicker than he could've thought possible. "What? No, we're not ready!"

Sherlock frowned. "John, you're so handicapped by your conceptions of 'ready'. So long as one has their mind with them, there is nothing they can't do."

"Are you becoming a poet?" John asked, conceding. "Fine. But I didn't bring my gun with me, and Lestrade has no idea that we're tackling a killer on our own - I'll let him know, just in case."

Sherlock looked at John's phone as he pulled it out as though it had personally offended him though he said nothing in opposition.

* * *

"You know, we could die on a case," John said once they'd arrived and were walking down the sidewalk to the flat that the uncle lived in, according to Sherlock. "He could pull out a gun and murder us on the spot. Do you ever think of that?"

"I don't burden myself with the possible outcomes of a situation. There are too many to try to prepare for each."

John looked at his friend, laughing. "I really think you should start poetry. Sherlock Holmes, acclaimed poet. It's not too far-fetched, to be honest."

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile as they made their way down the blustery street. The sun was dipping behind several clouds in the dimming afternoon light and rays of sunshine came in and out of focus. They finally arrived at a dumpy little flat, and Sherlock pounded on the knocker without hesitation.

A man with a beer belly sticking through his tank top opened the door. His hair was wet like he'd just gotten out of the shower and half of his face was shaved while the other half still had cream on it.

"Hello. We're coming in," Sherlock said, and without waiting for the man to respond he stepped inside. John followed warily, hoping that Sherlock had a plan because he certainly had no idea as to what to do.

The man opened his mouth to argue, belched instead, and followed them in.

"Hey, ya can't just come in 'ere! I've got privacy, ya know, it's a 'uman right, and ya just violated it! I'll call the cops!"

"No, I don't think you will," Sherlock said pleasantly. "Not with the guilt of murder you're bathing in. Even if they don't have evidence, you wouldn't dare."

The man's mouth flopped open like a fish gasping for air. John stood next to Sherlock, feeling that this wasn't one of their most intelligent moments - bursting into a flat to confront a murderer, of all people, without any sort of weapons with them.

"Now, here's what we're going to do. You're going to confess to the murder of your niece, or I'll alert Scotland Yard that you've got a meth lab in your flat," Sherlock said, nodding to the kitchen. "Which will it be?"

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the man exploded. A long string of other curses came out of his mouth. "Get out, now!"

Sherlock didn't even blink, but he kept his hands behind his back and stood just as tall.

"I said, get out!"

John took a step forward. "Look, mate, the cops are on their way, and-"

He didn't finish his sentence because the man had pulled out a gun with shaking hands. "I'll shoot ya! Ya 'ear me? I won't 'esitate, I swear!" He pulled the safety off and John put his hands calmly in the air.

"Okay," John said, keeping his cool. "Look, you've got the gun. You're in control. Now, how about you put that down, and no one gets hurt?"

The man pointed with his gun at a door off of the living room. "Go."

"Your basement," Sherlock breathed out. "You keep the bodies down there, Mr. Henry?"

Mr. Henry didn't acknowledge the question. He swung the barrel of the gun back to them. "Get down there, or I'll kill ya both," he threatened. John made eye contact with Sherlock, who nodded, and they slowly made their way to the basement door. John opened it cautiously, finding rickety wooden steps. He flicked the light on but it didn't do much in the dim light.

Sherlock suddenly turned around. "If you shoot us, the cops will hear and they will give you a life sentence on the spot," he warned. "I wouldn't advise that."

The man's breathing was labored and he sounded drunk. John didn't doubt that notion once they reached the bottom of the stairs; the basement stunk of beer and open cans were littered across the floor.

But more striking was the noose hanging from the wooden beam.

"That's where you killed her," Sherlock said quietly. "Quiet and quick. No one would know." He examined the rope, and John didn't doubt that his friend was making deductions based on the texture of it - or whatever the hell Sherlock looked at when he made his analyses - when a thick, heavy weight suddenly slammed into the back of his skull, ringing and solid.

* * *

He woke up in the basement, but this time he was tied to one of the beams. The man was standing in the room still, and for the first time it struck John how tall he was. The man's girth was vast and he doubted he could take the man on in a fight.

Sherlock was tied next to him; he could feel the detective's curly hair on his neck.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

"Awake, yes," Sherlock said, not bothering to whisper, and his tone was clearly annoyed. "So this is your plan? Kill us, and that way no one exposes your murder or meth secret?"

Mr. Henry turned back to him, and John was startled to see tear stains on his cheeks.

"It killed me. Hanging my niece? After I did it, I couldn't sleep for days. Couldn't believe what I'd done. And I promised myself I wouldn't kill anyone no more. But now you've gone and threatened me, and I… forgive me. I'm sorry."

He bent by John and untied the rope that had been pinning him against the beam. John instantly struggled, his hands still tied behind his back and his legs tied together, attempting to fight off the stars flying in his vision, but the man's grip on him was too strong. He nearly lost his balance when the rope around his ankles didn't yield, but managed to stay upright.

John could see Sherlock's face now, and wasn't surprised to see the pale skin and blood trickling down the side of his head. Concussion. He must have been nailed just as hard, he thought woozily, as he fought off the ringing in his ears that resumed upon standing up.

"The police weren't comin'," the man noted. "They never came. You two lied."

Sherlock's face twisted into a scowl. "Well, you are a murdering druggie. Do you expect us to treat you in a civil manner?"

John tugged as hard as he could with his wrists but couldn't get his hands out. "Not the time," he reminded Sherlock. The man suddenly lifted him as though he weighed nothing onto the chair in the center of the room.

 _Wait._

 _This isn't actually happening._

 _Is it?_

"Hang on," John protested. "Can we please talk about this? Mr. Henry - you don't have to kill again. That feeling after you killed your niece? You don't want that again, do you?"

The man's breath hitched. "But ya know things. I can't let ya go, knowin' ya know things. I can't."

John could see Sherlock straining at the ropes.

"John, I…" Sherlock began, his face looking, for the first time, scared. Sherlock Holmes, brilliant detective, master of wit, all-knowing man, was scared.

And that made John more scared than he'd ever been.

"John, I didn't prepare for this," Sherlock said finally, exhaling sharply. "Mr. Henry, please - there are other ways, and we won't turn you in - I promise you that we will leave, and never return. I swear!"  
Mr. Henry looked torn with himself. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he was averting John's eyes, his hands wringing and twisting.

"But… I can't… I can't take risks," Mr. Henry muttered, glancing up wildly. "I can't. My life would be ruined."

"But do you want to ruin ours?" Sherlock said, and John realized it was also the first time he'd ever seen Sherlock plead. "I swear to you that we won't report you to the police. Let us go and you'll never hear from us again."

Mr. Henry turned to John. "I… I don't know. I can't," he repeated, his words shaking and stumbling. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

John tried to jump off the chair in a leap that would potentially knock Mr. Henry to the floor, but he was impeded by the man's arms that wrapped around him like a bear hug. The rope that had been hanging from the beam was slipped around his neck, and he fought, but now he was like a dog on a leash, and there was nothing he could do.

Only now he realized just how high the beam was. If the chair was taken out from under his legs, he wouldn't be able to reach the floor - nor would Sherlock.

"Please, I'm begging you," John said, trying to keep his voice calm but even he could hear the slight tone of hysteria. "Don't do this. You can choose to let us go. You can. I swear to you, Mr. Henry, this isn't your last option."

Mr. Henry avoided making eye contact with him again. "I don't trust ya. I can't. I can't."

"No!" Sherlock's voice had risen to a shout. "Mr. Henry! Please!" He was so desperate that John couldn't help but look at his friend in wonder.

 _This is it. This is the end._

How ironic. They'd been talking about the what-ifs of this case only mere hours ago. What if they died on it?

And now, that seemed like their immediate future. John shook his head at the thought, trying to disregard it, but it seemed inevitable.

He couldn't see any way out of this one. And Lestrade knew that they were on the case… he'd texted him on their way here… but Lestrade didn't know they were in peril… and now there was no way he could let him know.

"I'm so sorry," Mr. Henry whispered. John chanced a look at Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock," he said. His voice slipped a bit and he choked slightly. "Hey. It's going to be okay."

Sherlock looked near hyperventilation. "John, I don't have a plan. I don't have a plan!" His voice rose to a bellow by the end of his sentence and in it were the emotions he always hid, the emotions people claimed The Great Sherlock Holmes didn't have - the emotions John scarcely saw.

"If this is our last case, Sherlock, then I'm glad it was a good one," John said, keeping his voice controlled again, for Sherlock's sake.

"John, this isn't our last case - don't be stupid-"

"Thank you, Sherlock. For all of the cases you've brought me on. For sharing a flat with me. For helping me see the world a lot differently." John managed to smile. "For being my best friend. Really."

Mr. Henry had tears in his eyes. For the tiniest of moments, John thought that his last words to Sherlock had convinced him not to pull the chair… to not make an irreversible decision… to not kill him.

One second, the chair was below him, holding his weight up.

And the next, it wasn't.

And John fell. He felt the rope snap taut around his neck.

Eight seconds, he discovered, was a long time when you were in the process of being hanged.

He heard Sherlock's cry of despair - it was agonizing, raw with grief.

The rope cut off his breath. It was painful. Exceedingly painful. But in those sparing moments, those eight seconds - he ignored the pain.

 _You're a soldier. Soldiers don't tolerate pain. They win over it._

John was a damn soldier, and his last few moments weren't going to be spent thinking about the pain.

Sherlock was bucking violently from where he was tied, but it was all in vain; he couldn't move. John would have offered reassurance but now his vocal cords weren't working… probably because of the pain… that would make sense…

Sherlock's shouts were echoing in his mind. The baritone voice. Sherlock's deep, intelligent voice would be the last thing he'd ever hear.

Interesting.

If he had predicted how he'd go down, this wouldn't have been how. He would have guessed - or hoped for - old age.

He realized with a jolt that wasn't happening.

His feet were dangling in the air… kicking… but he ignored the pain.

The rope was tight… so tight… but he ignored the pain.

Then, he lifted his eyes ever so slightly to meet Sherlock's. The detective's eyes were red, wet, and wild. Emotional. Sentimental. Everything that Sherlock hated.

So different from the first time he'd met him… walking into that lab with Stamford, he'd been met with steeled, calculating eyes.

These were different… so different…

And the eight seconds finished.

* * *

Sherlock could feel his throat tearing. John fell. For eight seconds, he kicked, and maybe… maybe John could fight it. Maybe he'd live.

But the rationale in Sherlock knew that was stupid. Don't be stupid… don't be stupid. Never be stupid… that was what he lived by. Yet now, he hoped, for some silly reason, that John was immune to hanging.

Eight seconds passed.

John went still.

The moment should have been blurred, but instead Sherlock saw it with horrible clarity. Mr. Henry touched John's wrist with a trembling hand then brought it back as though he'd been burned.

"Tell me he's alive!" Sherlock yelled, still pulling violently… uselessly… at his bonds.

Mr. Henry stepped back. "He's still alive," he said, his voice hardly audible.

"Let him down! Please, let him down! Mr. Henry, please!" Sherlock sought the man with his eyes and found only emptiness.

Dead silence.

Two minutes before John died.

Two.

Minutes.

And Sherlock cried.

It had been thirty-five years since he'd cried.

Mr. Henry guided him to the stool after. Sherlock didn't fight. Limply he felt the noose around his neck.

The chair was pulled.

He counted. Nine seconds until he saw nothing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nothing.

 **Wow. I just killed John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. I swore I'd never write a death fic, yet here I am.**

 **I've decided that I've finished these one-shots. I've written over 100,000 words, and I think it's time to put this away.**

 **I can't thank all of you enough. All of you who left reviews, favorited, followed, and gave support.**

 **So, I thought it would be appropriate to kill my two favorite characters as an ending to this (I really am sorry! I swear!).**

 **I'd be so INCREDIBLY grateful for any reviews letting me know what you thought of all of these chapters, and again, thank you all so much for an unforgettable time writing all of these.**

 **Hope it was enjoyable!**


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